The Heart of the Matter
by Nienna Nir
Summary: They say time heals all wounds but Clint Barton knows that more than anything, time festers and the things we regret eat away at us like an infection. Part of the Series: Coulson Lives, but the Avengers might be the death of him.
1. Then the substanceless blue

**Note: **This story is part of the series: Coulson Lives but the Avengers might be the Death of him. For more stories in the series check the timeline on my profile. (This story will make references to previous events from the series. Summaries/Spoilers will be at the end of appropriate chapters.

* * *

**1. Then the substanceless blue**

"You have heart," the silvery, sinuous voice declared, it's honeyed tones like siren call seeping deep to the very marrow.

"JARVIS pause," Clint stared at the TV, his fingertips massaging his jaw absently as his eyes traced the image frozen on the screen; Loki's scepter raised to Clint's own chest, the sickly blue glow of magic washing over him to settle in blank eyes.

"Son of a Bitch," he murmured to himself with an exhausted expression, running his fingers though his hair. He leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The room was deathly quite, but then this room rarely saw any noise at all. As the Avengers had moved into Stark Tower and made it their own, the tastefully decorated living room had slowly been abandoned for the less fashionable and more homey rec room on the floor directly below. Tony insisted it was because it was closer to the kitchen. Clint thought it might be because the Loki shaped hole that had once marred the floor was still unsettling even though you could no longer see it.

It was incredibly late and he should be asleep, he was the only one in the entire tower who wasn't. That was more testament to the pathetic nature of the situation than anything else he could think of. Any time you were still awake after Tony Stark had called it a night, there was a serious problem with your life.

"Jay, mute audio, step back four seconds and then playback at three frames per second," Clint requested with a half hearted sigh. The picture rewound and he stared at the security video as Loki raised his scepter in slow motion.

"Pause," A half sick feeling washed over him and he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing his stomach to stop turning over.

There were too many nights like this now, nights where he barely slept. He'd passed every single psych eval, though that wasn't a surprise. He knew how to manipulate that. The first six months had been rocky but the team had fudged his return to duty eval and he'd managed to pull it together enough to pass the following quarterly.

The team knew he hadn't adjusted as well as his file would suggest but then most of them were nearly as unstable as he was. He'd come to the conclusion that it was part of the gig. You couldn't be a super hero without being a little messed up. He was used to being messed up, he'd spent most of his life that way. It wasn't the lack of sleep or the tension headaches or the bouts of paranoia or even the occasional mood swings that really bothered him, he could keep on top of that.

He'd changed, he could feel it in every inch of his skin and it was the one thing that really, properly frightened him. He wasn't sure if it had been Loki or the battle or Natasha's swift kick to his head. But he'd changed, and not at all for the better.

"JARVIS, load the video of the helicarrier attack," he requested. "Show me the footage from the bridge assault. Audio half volume."

"It is at this juncture, sir, that I feel obliged to remind you that reviewing this data will not, in any way, relax you," JARVIS declared, his tone as nonjudgmental as was possible for an AI who's programing shouldn't involve emotion anyway. "Nor is continued avoidance of sleep in your best interest."

"Still with the sir?" Clint asked, his voice tinted with amusement. JARVIS didn't answer and he allowed himself a small smile. "I know Jay, and I appreciate you looking out for me. But I just can't sleep."

"I appreciate your aversion to medical remedies," JARVIS declared hesitantly. "Perhaps I could interest you in a proven meditation technique?"

"You're going to play ocean sounds while I count sheep?" Clint chuckled.

"I had something somewhat less trite in mind," JARVIS replied a bit stiffly. "I have conducted extensive research into the topic, sir, should you like to delve into alternative methods." The corner of Clint's mouth twitched.

"Thanks JARVIS," he said finally. "Really, thank you, it's nice to know you have my back. And you can call me Clint, you know."

"I consider you a friend, sir," JARVIS stated simply. It was a declaration that made Clint's heart squeeze slightly in his chest. Clint himself tended to be the friendly sort, he'd learned early on that an easy going attitude and a sense of humor were a perfect cover for nearly everything. Friends, now that was an entirely different thing all together. Until recently he could have counted all the friends he'd had in his life on one hand, with fingers to spare, no less.

"If I sleep, I dream," Clint admitted. "And if I dream… well, I expect you've noticed what happens then." Clint found himself surprisingly all right with that fact. The idea that a computer was watching him while he slept didn't bother him in the slightest. Of course there were no cameras directly in his room apart from the ones on the computer interfaces he could activate himself. But JARVIS had sensors that collected his bio data and while JARVIS, technically, didn't listen in when he hadn't been called Clint suspected that was a guideline more than an actual rule.

"If you do not sleep the chances of you becoming ill increase," JARVIS observed. "Not the most desirable of outcomes."

"At least we can agree on that," Clint sighed. "Queue up the fight on the bridge for me."

On the screen he watched Fury take out a pair of the infiltrators as Hill shot a third and moments later they were both pinned down behind one of the consoles. The tactical advantage had been entirely against them from the beginning. Clint had seen to that himself. He focused in on Hill, her face bleeding as she barked into her com. An arrow streaked across the room and the bulkhead along the starboard side erupted, sending crewmen flying. A second arrow followed the first almost instantly.

"JARVIS, back five seconds and play at slow again," Clint requested, watching as the first arrow slowly exploded and the second embedded in the computer interface, shutting down the entire system. Fury raised his gun, taking the shot, mostly on reflex, Clint could tell.

"Back again," he requested softly, staring at the replay.

"Again," his voice was barely a whisper and his brow knitted. There was a pinched expression on Fury's face, almost as if he hoped he'd miss. Clint had lost track of the number of times he'd wished Fury hadn't.

"JARVIS, pause," His eyes flicked over the screen, taking in every detail and cataloguing it.

Human beings were complicated. SHIELD was about as complicated as humans could conceivably get. Clint had never considered Nick Fury a friend, though he knew Phil did. It wasn't that he didn't respect the man, apart from his faults Fury was damn loyal to his people and he might lie to you or jerk your chain or send you into a complete shitstorm of a mission with no chance for success and even less for extraction. But there were two things Nick Fury did not do. He did not break his word and he did not leave people behind. That had always been enough for Clint. It was still enough. Whatever half truths or deceits he might make or information he might withhold, he was good to his word once he made you a promise.

It was one of Fury's promises that landed him in Fury's office less than two weeks after the Battle for New York.

* * *

"How you doing, Barton?"

Clint flinched, his eyes never straying from the corner of Fury's desk. He could sense more than see the steepled fingers and penetrative gaze but he didn't look up, his neck slightly bent. It wasn't submission, but Fury would know that, knew him all too well.

"I'll be picking glass out of my ass for a month," Clint declared with a shrug, the words sounded like him but there was none of the usual vibrato in his tone. "I came back from Budapest more beat up than this." He didn't move at all as Fury pushed himself out of his chair, his hands braced on the desk as he leaned forward.

"How you _doing_, Barton?" he repeated. Clint allowed his eyes to flicker up for just the barest moment, knowing they could say what he couldn't, what he wouldn't, what he'd never give voice even if he could find the words. Fury paused a long moment and Clint stared at the corner of the desk, willing himself not to tremble.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Fury's voice was thick with resignation as he settled in his chair again, watching Clint with a scrutinizing expression.

"Psych says you haven't been late to a single appointment," Fury remarked after a moment. "Care to tell me why you're suddenly their model patient?"

"I'm sure they listed some theories in their report, sir," Clint stated emotionlessly.

"I'm sure they did," Fury agreed. "But I really couldn't give a shit about their half-assed theories which is why I'm asking you." Clint didn't reply. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, he knew exactly what Fury wanted to hear, knew what would get him off of medical lockdown, out of the borderline prison he was now in where his every move was watched. He'd spent his entire SHIELD career blowing smoke at the psych department. They hadn't caught on yet.

"Let's clear the air a little here, Agent," Fury stated, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not going to sit here and pretend to know what's going on in your head. I'm also not going to let psych clear you until I'm satisfied that you're no longer a risk to yourself." Clint's eyes snapped up wide with surprise to find Fury staring back at him with his usual taciturn expression.

"How stupid do you think I am, Barton?" he asked drily. "You're not unstable so there's no reason you shouldn't have been able to talk your way out of psych by now. Instead you show up to every one of your evals and sit there like a vegetable. So either you want to be locked up, or there's something else going on here. Now why don't you tell me whatever the hell it is you won't tell your shrink?"

Clint stared at him mutely. Most people thought the man was an uncaring bastard. Most people were probably not that far wrong. Fury didn't have a soft side, more like a slightly less gravely side that was more like sandpaper than jagged rock. He stared at Clint with a shrewd, irritated expression. Clint had seen that expression too many times to count, it was the expression Fury wore when he was afraid he was losing something he was desperate to hang onto.

"I can't sir," Clint admitted hoarsely, struggling to shutter his emotions. "I just can't."

"What do you want me to do, Barton?" Fury questioned tiredly. "You don't sleep, you don't eat, you've lost ten goddamned pounds. You look like a corpse shuffling around headquarters. You don't talk to anyone. Psych says you're a risk and Romanov says if I keep you locked up under observation it's going to kill you."

Clint opened his mouth but he couldn't force the words out.

"You realize that if I release you and you swan off the top of STARK Tower it's on me, right?" Fury demanded angrily.

"I don't think Stark likes me enough to let me back in his place after I busted it up, sir," Clint declared softly. Fury let out a string of expletives as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Clint drew in a shaky breath and another, his heart beating wildly like a caged bird in the silence that filled the room. He would swear Fury could hear the thudding, he had to, it was ringing in Clint's ears so loudly he could barely hear.

"Sir?" he asked in confusion. Fury had spoken but Clint couldn't make out the words and he glanced up again to find the Director staring back at him.

"What do you need, Barton?" Fury repeated with a faint edge of impatience.

"Sir, I don't..."

"Agent, what's done is done," Fury snapped. "Now if I could go back and fix it I would, but somebody I owe is dead and the only thing he ever asked of me in all the years we've known each other is that I get you back and You. Are. Not. Back. So you tell me what you need to get your act together and I don't care what it is. I'll have you admitted to a civilian facility under a fake ID, I'll buy you a toy bow and some crayons, I will fly you to fucking Tahiti. You tell me what you need and it's done Barton. Goddamn it, do not make me let him down!"

Clint stared back at him, his voice lodged in his throat. Long moments passed and finally Fury let out a slow breath.

"Dismissed, Barton," he declared resignedly.

* * *

Clint's eyes bored into the screen, mapping each frozen instant. He'd done this a hundred times with dozens upon dozens of frames until he could close his eyes and replay each moment in horrible clarity. Of all the things he'd done, of all the things he'd had to do, truly awful things that he'd justified because it saved the lives of innocents. This was the one thing he couldn't forgive himself.

"I should have stopped this," he murmured, so softly the words barely passed his lips as he stared into his own blue tinged eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir?" JARVIS inquired, his tone contrite.

"Nothing Jay," Clint declared, running his fingers through his hair. "It's nothing."


	2. God's lioness

**2. God's lioness**

Clint had been watching his fight with Natasha on a loop for nearly half an hour now. The narrow catwalk in the bowels of the helicarrier felt like an extension of his body it had grown so familiar. The rote of the scene had etched itself upon his brain so completely that at some point, without even noticing he'd begun to mime the actions, sometimes his own, sometimes Natasha's, his brain committing every nuance of the battle to memory.

On the screen his head hit the rail with a sickening crack despite the fact that the volume was so low that the sound could only barely be heard. He froze, holding his breath as pale blue drained from the eyes on the screen.

He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't admired her. If he closed his eyes now he could see her though the scope of his rifle. Her hair had been blonde then, her pale blue dress catching in the breeze. Her head turned, her eyes seeking him out though he knew it was impossible for her to see him. Fierce eyes, full of flame and life and courage. She knew she was about to die, powerless to stop it, so instead she faced him.

He'd thought at the time that she had no fear. It had taken years for him to realize that the only thing she truly feared was being alone.

He'd spent nearly two months on medical lockdown at SHIELD after the battle. He sat in silence in his psych appointments every morning, he worked out in the gym he skipped meals he lost sleep, he lived with the guilt, he lost weight. Though it all Natasha became more and more anxious. She was gone two weeks, back out in the field for the first time since the Battle. When she'd returned the look that she'd given him had sent a fresh wave of guilt over him. Four hours later she ambushed him outside of the firing range and dragged him to the parking garage, his duffle bag slung over her shoulder.

* * *

"Get in the car, Barton," Natasha ordered, opening the back door. Clint stared at her with a blank expression for a long moment, hesitating. The garage was all but empty, the sleek red Toyota was a reflection of it's owner, pretty without being remarkable. That was the way Natasha liked it.

"Get in the car or I will knock you out and put you in the trunk," she declared, the faintest flicker of anger in her expression. Clint made to answer but thought better of it, sliding cautiously into the back seat.

"Nat are you kidnapping me?" he asked worriedly. "Because if you are."

"Shut up and get on the floor," she snapped and much to his own surprise he complied without even thinking. She tossed the duffle bag on top of him, obscuring him from view, and slammed the door, climbing behind the wheel.

"Do not move, do not make a sound, do not give me away or I swear, Clint, I will break every bone in your body." She muttered softly as she drove toward the security gate. Clint wanted to answer but he found he couldn't. He drew in one long slow breath and held it as the car rolled to a stop. He closed his eyes, not even letting his chest rise and fall, a few moments later the car rolled forward again and he slowly let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Nat, you shouldn't be doing this for me," he said softly.

"I'm really not in the mood to debate this with you," she stated calmly. "Just stay down for now." Clint stared up at the roof, his palms sweaty and his heart rate beating out an uneven tattoo in his chest.

"Where are we going?" he asked curiously. He trusted Natasha, whatever she was doing now it was because she felt she had to, but Clint had seen her make more than one decision that wasn't in her own best interests for his sake. He wasn't prepared to live with that right now.

"Not far," she replied, slowing and turning a corner. Clint looked up though the window to see the unmistakable overhead lights of another parking garage.

"Nat if you're ditching the car then Fury doesn't know you're doing this," Clint said warily.

"No, he doesn't," she admitted.

"Tasha, don't do this for me," he pleaded, his voice warbling with desperation. "You're all..." he couldn't finish the sentence and he choked.

"I'm protecting Fury as much as you," she declared softly. "I'll contact him as soon as we're settled and let him know. It'd be better if you went off the radar for the next few days. You just have to trust me on this." She parked the car and got out, opening the back door.

"Come on, let's go," she demanded impatiently as he scrambled out of the back seat. He barely had his feet under him and his duffel slung over his shoulder before she was walking away toward a long black car.

"Get in, stay down, do not let anyone see you," she ordered sharply, waving him inside and climbing in after him.

"Ready ma'am?" the driver asked, only barely glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Yeah, we're good," she nodded as the car rolled into motion.

"Since when do you have a limo and a driver?" Clint half teased from his spot stretched out on the floor, his head pillowed on the seat across from her. Natasha fished her phone from her pocket.

"I borrowed it from a friend," she shrugged.

"You don't have friends, Nat," he pointed out. She gave him a withering look and he felt himself smile only slightly. It made his face feel funny. He couldn't exactly remember the last time he'd smiled.

The limo wound it's way though New York traffic and Clint closed his eyes, trying to shut out the noise and the construction equipment they passed. Cranes, poised like metal dragons arched over the streets and the rumble of heavy equipment was everywhere. The city was rebuilding at an astonishing rate but that didn't help to assuage his self incrimination. If he'd stopped Loki, this never would have happened.

The limo drove into yet another parking garage and rolled to a stop. Without a word Natasha got out and Clint drew in a deep breath before grabbing his duffle and following. This garage was disturbingly empty, the driver having stopped only feet from the elevator. It opened as if on cue and he hurried his steps to join her. The lift was sleek, titanium and ebony wood, and the elevator controls looked just the slightest bit star trek. It wasn't Natasha's usual bolt hole and Clint found that made him nervous. He'd have felt better in a dingy flat in Queens than in this place.

He didn't say that. He didn't say anything. The lift rose and Natasha seemed indisposed to an explanation. Clint was indisposed to an interrogation and perhaps that was all for the best, sometimes their friendship was better served by silence. Finally the doors opened and Natasha strode forward, her long elegant legs eating up the hard wood floor with the sharp click of her boots.

"Hungry?" she asked, leading him into a kitchen that was probably twice the size of the house Clint had grown up in. He froze on the threshold, his heart skipping a few beats as she made her way to the fridge.

"There's leftover Italian and," she paused, peering into the takeout container. "I think this is Thai, don't quote me on that."

"Hello," Bruce Banner was sitting at the table in the massive kitchen, tucked into the chair farthest in the corner, if the wide open space had actually had a corner to be tucked into. He was staring at both of them with a wary expression, his tablet clutched in his hand.

"Nice to see you again Doctor Banner," Natasha replied, not looking up from the fridge as she popped open a beer.

"We're in Stark Tower," Clint stated in a mixture of awe and horror. "Nat, what are we doing in Stark Tower?"

"Eating leftovers," Natasha stated, pressing the button on the microwave. Clint stared at her mutely, balling his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. He turned to look at Bruce who was watching them with a nervous expression. Clint would have laughed at the irony of that if he hadn't been equally terrified.

"This is pretty good," Natasha stated around a bite of pasta as she stirred it around the takeout container. "Is this Angelo's?" She forked a bite, shoving it into Clint's mouth before he could protest.

"Yeah, actually, it is," Bruce confirmed, still looking as if he couldn't decide if he should panic.

"I'm not hungry," Clint complained, the pasta falling into his stomach like lead.

"Shut up and chew," Natasha ordered, forking another bite into his mouth.

"Hey Bruce, I'm going to order…" Steve Rogers skidded to a stop in the opposite doorway, his eyes wide in surprise as he caught sight of Clint and Natasha, his voice trailing off in a choking sound. Natasha seemed unperturbed, taking a bite of her leftover pasta before shoveling more past Clint's lips.

"Hi," Clint half mumbled around his mouthful.

"I'm guessing you didn't know we had company either." Bruce observed uneasily, glancing at Steve.

"If I'd known we'd had company I'd have stayed in the gym where I belong," Steve pointed out. "No offense." he added quickly, a soft flush coloring his cheeks.

"None taken," Natasha assured, tossing out the container. "Are there cookies around here?"

"Pantry, third shelf, right side," Bruce replied automatically, his expression still guarded as Natasha sauntered directly to the pantry door, picking over the shelves as if she belonged there..

"I thought you were in… Duluth or something," Clint declared. This was all kinds of wrong. He was in STARK Tower when he was supped to be on medical supervision at SHIELD and Captain America was in STARK Tower when he was supposed to be touring the US and Natasha was in STARK Tower eating all their food like she lived here. He turned his attention to her nervously at the sound of a package tearing open.

"Yeah that's what SHIELD was supposed to think," Steve admitted bashfully, forcing himself to cross the room, still clearly nervous.

"Don't worry, SHIELD still thinks that," Natasha assured. "Oreo, Cap?" She held out the package and Steve took one on reflex.

"You, Captain America, you're hiding in Stark Tower?" Clint asked in disbelief.

"I had a rough month," Steve admitted.

"Stop griefing the man," Natasha scolded. "You spent the better part of the last week sulking outside the shooting range."

"They're limiting me to two hours a day!" Clint protested in frustration. "_Supervised!_ With damn practice arrows! Do you have any idea how frustrating…" his voice trailed off as he realized they had an audience. This fact didn't seem to bother Natasha in the slightest.

"Barton, have they had you on lockdown all this time?" Steve asked, his brow furrowed in concern before turning to Natasha. "Is that why you're here? You had to break him out."

"I didn't break him out," Natasha insisted.

"You kidnapped me and stuffed me in the back of your car," Clint pointed out.

"I didn't break him out," Natasha repeated assuringly. "He's been on medical observation. My clearance level allows me to sign him out if I'm willing to take responsibility for him."

"Did you actually tell anyone you were signing him out?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Of course not," She shrugged, picking another Oreo from the package. "I'm not stupid."

"Yes you are," Clint scowled at her. "Because you're supposed to have a security detail of at least one other level five or higher operative! Fury is going to bust you down to level two when he finds out!"

"As it happens I did arrange for another qualified operative," Natasha replied with a smirk.

"Who?" Clint demanded angrily. This was not what he wanted, this was in no way what he wanted and his stomach churned over in anxiety, protesting the leftovers in his belly.

Natasha waved an Oreo at the door.

"Hey kids, see you found your way to the beer all right, _Natalie_," Tony Stark sauntered into the room wearing a crisp dove gray suit and a blue button-down, open at the neck, his salmon tie peeking out of one pocket.

"Nice to see you too, Stark," Natasha stated as he stole an Oreo from the package on his way to the coffee machine.

"Do you guys want pizza?" Tony asked. "We should probably order food."

"Tony," Bruce declared in exasperation.

"Yeah?" the billionaire asked, looking up from the k-cup machine in confusion. Bruce simply pointed at Natasha and Clint with what could only be described as a perturbed expression. Tony blanched a moment.

"Legolas is going to be bunking with us for a while," Tony stated. "With his chaperone. I told you that, right?"

"No, Tony, you did not tell us that!" Bruce snapped. Tony looked somewhat cowed, but then Clint couldn't help but notice that Bruce's expression suddenly bore a striking resemblance to one he could remember seeing on Pepper Potts.

"The elf from Lord of the Rings!" Steve declared excitedly, miming drawing a bow. His expression turned awkward as he lowered his arms at Natasha's glare. "I saw that film."

"Haven't you seen Lord of the Rings?" Tony teased her, a wide grin on his face.

"Only a dozen times," Clint shrugged, before Natasha could reply. "It's her favorite. She has a crush on Haldir."

"I do not," She protested half heartedly.

"The big blond brute who dies?" Tony asked.

"Haldir lives, for your information," Natasha sniffed disdainfully.

"Tony!" Bruce sighed in exasperation, struggling to pull the other man back on task.

"Yeah, yeah," Tony offered placatingly. "See, Barton needs to lay low for a couple of days and since SHIELD, in their infinite wisdom, seems to think he's a danger to himself, they're insisting that he not go anywhere without supervision. So I said bring him here and I'll… supervise."

"That might be the worst idea I've ever heard," Steve admitted. Bruce nodded in agreement.

"It would be if they were actually relying on me to directly supervise him." Tony agreed. "Thankfully JARVIS is incredibly responsible. Jay, say hi to the nice agent."

"Greetings Agent Barton," JARVIS stated. "Could you please provide me with a voice print in order to access Tower security?"

"Uhh…hi?"

"Very good sir, You are now authorized for level three access protocols." JARVIS declared smoothly. "Should you require anything please do not hesitate to ask, also be advised that should you attempt to leave the tower unescorted or in any way endanger yourself I shall be obliged to notify Agent Romanov and Mr. Stark immediately."

"That's a stupid voiceprint," Tony ridiculed.

"But easy to remember," Bruce pointed out.

"What the hell is going on here?" Barton demanded in confusion. "Why are there robots in the ceiling?"

"He's not a robot," Steve replied.

"And he's not in the ceiling," Bruce added. "That's just where the speakers are."

"And just what am I supposed to be laying low from?!" He added.

"The World Security Council," All eyes turned on Natasha who had, at some point procured a pint of french vanilla from the freezer and was spooning it into her mouth on Oreos directly from the container. "They're going to demand tomorrow that Fury allow them to interview you." Clint blinked at her for a long moment, his legs felt watery and the leftover pasta was churning painfully in his stomach. He gripped the counter, leaning against it heavily.

"Well shit," he declared softly.

"Does Fury know about this?" Steve asked worriedly.

"I'm certainly not going to tell him," Natasha shrugged. "It's in his best interests to look as shocked as possible tomorrow when the council calls."

"I'm not sure I want to ask this but how do you know?" Tony questioned with a frown.

"I have my resources," Natasha answered cryptically.

"That's not ominous at all," Tony observed.

"I thought this was taken care of!" Steve declared indignantly. "Barton wasn't the only one affected and Doctor Selvig's reputation…"

"Yeah, well, Selvig has conspiracy theories taped to his wall," Natasha admitted. "And he draws Yggdrasill shaped equations on his windows with magic markers… in his underwear."

"Well that's comforting," Bruce cringed.

"So what," Tony looked affronted. "They're miffed that Katniss is dealing with this better than a crotchety old academic?"

"I think they've proven that logic isn't their strong suit," Steve pointed out.

"I'm pretty sure they'd let it go but there's brass all over them for some sort of explanation," she admitted.

"What did I do to piss of the military?" Clint demanded peevishly.

"I don't think it's anyone you know," Natasha explained, scraping ice cream off the insides of the container. "He's a self obsessed three star I have some prior with. Name's Ross." Bruce, Steve and Tony visibly flinched but Clint was far too busy staving off panic to give it much thought.

"Anyway," She added, tossing away the empty ice cream container. "You settle us in and I'll run out somewhere that's not here and call Fury."

"What are you going to tell him?" Clint asked worriedly.

"That you look like hell and I'm not losing you too," She answered frankly. Clint blanched, it was a low blow but one that only he would truly appreciate.

"She's right, you look like shit," Tony agreed. Clint only glared at him. He turned a pleading look on Natasha and she spared him a soft smile.

"It'll be fine," she assured gently. He nodded in resignation.

"Right, you're on Seventy-Three, Robin Hood," Stark declared "Rushman, you're across the hall. That is unless you two…" Tony's hands fluttered in a gesture that wasn't meant to be obscene but still managed to give that impression regardless.

"You're an idiot," Natasha declared drily, patting Clint on the chest and disappearing out the door.

"Did she just eat half a package of Oreos?" Bruce asked with a frown.

"She had help," Steve admitted around a cookie, his cheeks coloring.

"Fine, I'll order food," Tony snapped grumpily. "JARVIS, give Birdbrain the fifty cent tour and show him where to unpack their stuff."

* * *

That first night in the tower had been the best he'd slept since before Loki and the tesseract and the dark regret of things beyond his control. He'd awakened the next day to find a world without judgmental stares or nervous glances and with a private shooting range he could access at his leisure. He'd been wary of Bruce and Steve at first but as it turned out their hesitation had more to do with with their reluctance to have SHIELD in their personal lives more than anything he'd done.

Natasha shadowed him almost constantly if he left his room, he couldn't always see her but he could feel her presence. After the fifth day she eased up enough to allow JARVIS to watch him at least on occasion. Even that had been better than his gilded prison at SHIELD. It had been like a weight off his shoulders to feel free, even if he wasn't entirely. He'd never admit it to anyone but the day Tony had suggested they stay on had left him almost dizzy with euphoria. Nat had seemed almost as relieved. The idea of going back to SHIELD had been more than he could bear.

"JARVIS do you know anything about mind control?" he asked, his eyes flickering over the fight still playing out on screen.

"I'm afraid my information in this instance is limited at best," the AI admitted. "However some time ago, at Ms Potts' request, I did extensive research in psychological and drug induced techniques of reeducation."

"When Tony came back from Afghanistan," He nodded. "She was afraid he might be compromised."

"You would be correct, sir," the AI answered. "Thankfully Mr. Stark as never shown any signs that he has been unduly influenced."

"But you can undo it," Clint stated. "You can fight it off."

"Based on my research I believe there is very little an individual can do to resists such types of torture without assistance," JARVIS answered, his tone gentle. "Particularly in cases where pharmaceuticals have been involved."

"I tried to kill her," Clint stated, staring at the screen. "I can blame Loki but that is me there on the screen Jay, trying to kill my friend."

"I do not believe that it is, sir," JARVIS insisted. Clint sighed, swallowing down the misery.

"You weren't there," he reminded. "I was."


	3. Into the red Eye

**3. Into the red Eye**

Clint stared out the window, his face pressed to the glass, the city lights blurring in his vision until New York was a haze of brilliant, glowing color. He loved living here in ways he wasn't properly able to explain. Some of it was the height, to be sure, so much distance, so much clarity. From here he felt like he could finally see his world in perspective. He just wished he could get this far away from himself.

"JARVIS," His soft voice carried clear and rough through the room. "Show me the tapes of the holding cell they had me in on the Helicarrier, post attack, roughly three hours."

He'd never had a real home before. It had taken him a while to think of this place in that way, and when he finally did it took him even longer to admit to himself it was the first he'd ever had. His first real family.

He'd loved his mother, and Barney too, but the perspective of years had taught him it was the love of a child with nothing else to cling to. It didn't have the strength behind it of the people he called family now. Somewhere deep in his chest was the urge to talk to Natasha or Cap but he stuffed it down, he couldn't bring himself to wake either of them, not for this.

He clambered over the back of the sofa, sinking into the plush leather to watch himself on the screen, bickering with Natasha, though the argument was without any real heat. Natasha was sitting on his gurney, her legs folded in front of her as he circled the room like a caged tiger. His skin pricked at the memory of the pins and needles feeling and he rubbed his arms absently as he watched.

"Fury said to keep you here," The Natasha on the screen declared gently. "Just until everything's settled and we have a plan. He's not going to take you out, Clint, he's as relieved as the rest of us."

"I feel like I'm going crazy in here," he countered. "You know how I am, Tasha."

"I know," she soothed. "but it's not a cell and it's only temporary."

"I have to get out of here, we have to stop him," Clint insisted. "I have to help, I should be in on the planning, I have intel."

"I know," she sighed. "Fury has his hands full right now."

"Well then get Coulson down here!" Clint pleaded. "He'll sign me out." Natasha winced and Clint felt his stomach turn over as he watched the horrified expression that washed over his face.

"No," the Clint on the screen whispered.

"Clint," she sighed. "He tried to stop Loki from escaping."

"But he's okay," Clint's voice wavered. Natasha didn't answer. "He's okay Nat, tell me he's going to be okay."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Mute audio, JARVIS," Clint requested with a sigh, watching himself dive into the wash room to heave his guts up. Even the memory made him feel ill and he stared at Natasha's image as she slid off the gurney to lean against the wash room door her forehead pressed to the bulkhead. He could still feel the cold metal floor against his palms and the hollowed out feeling in his belly, like a phantom pain. Forty minutes after this, when he could finally stand again, Steve had come into the room and told him to suit up. He'd just been crawling on the floor thinking his head was going to explode and before he could even get his stomach to stop twisting he was on his way onto the battlefield.

Steve had never once questioned his fitness, not on the flight to New York and not after. Natasha had vouched for him and that was good enough for Rogers. He took her word as one warrior to another, believing that she wouldn't risk her own life by backing someone who wasn't ready. When the dust had settled and there was nothing left but raw pain and shattered psyche, Steve had gripped his shoulder as they walked through the Helicarrier to the debrief, shooting looks at everyone they passed, positioning himself between Clint and Fury just in case the buffer was needed. Clint was on Steve's team now, one of Steve's men, and as far as Rogers was concerned everyone else could go to hell. Clint wasn't sure he'd ever believed in anything as much as Steve Rogers believed in his team.

If anything, Fury seemed pleased about this. Steve had even offered to stay for Clint's medical eval. Clint had waved him off, of course. For once he didn't feel the need to escape medical. He knew he was compromised, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep at night without the knowledge that someone was keeping an eye on him, more for everyone else's safety than his own.

When he finally moved into the tower Steve had been the hardest thing to get used to. The man made pancakes, from flour and milk instead of a mix, no less, and he expected you to eat them. And he was handsy, always a pat on the back, a jostled shoulder an arm around the neck for no apparent reason. Clint supposed this was how war buddies behaved in the forties but it set him on edge. Cap was undeterred by his tension or glares or his outright shoving away. Clint's one blatant "Get the fuck off me" had been met with a laugh and an offer of a beer. That had probably been Clint's breaking point.

It wasn't that he disliked Steve. You couldn't dislike Steve Rogers once you actually got to know him, it just wasn't possible unless you were an asshole and Clint was fairly certain he wasn't an asshole. He realized, as Steve flicked the cap off the beer _with his thumb_ and handed it to Clint, that he didn't want Steve Rogers to like _him_.

The thought left him breathless and he slipped out of the room almost instantly, his hands shaking. He didn't want to be Rogers' war buddy, he didn't want Stark making him a covert bow that would fold down and fit in the palm of his hand, he didn't want to fire up the grill with Banner. He didn't even want to play video games with Natasha. If Thor had still been on earth he wouldn't want his friendship either.

He wanted them to resent him, to give him a wide berth, to act as if he were one step from being a criminal. It was no less than he deserved.

The revelation had both relieved and terrified him at the same time. Relief because it had been like finally having a diagnosis for that odd madly that defied explanation. Terror because it was, in his mind, one of the worst possible outcomes.

His minor escape from SHIELD to avoid the World Security Council had meant that for more than a month Fury hadn't even really known where he was. Natasha had declared that the director hadn't asked so she hadn't offered. Clint suspected that Fury didn't bother asking because he knew Natasha would lie anyway. It was something they had in common and Clint always felt it was one of the things that made her Fury's favorite.

Staying clear of SHIELD's facilities had been the perfect excuse not to attend his Psyche appointments and when the WSC finally closed the case and he could officially resurface, he hadn't. Natasha returned to SHIELD the next day to tell Fury they were in New York and that Clint was secure. Sitwell called to check on him regularly, he supposed to confirm that Natasha didn't have him strung up by his toes somewhere. He really wouldn't put it past her.

Apart from that, he had no contact with SHIELD, only regular assurances from either Sitwell or Natasha that whatever was necessary for his recovery was all that mattered. Fury would extend his paid leave indefinitely if it meant he would be alright.

He knew he wasn't alright. He could feel it in skin and bone but he embraced it rather than try to fight it. He deserved to be punished, deserved to be despised and if his team wouldn't offer him contempt, he'd deliver it himself.

He pulled away as best he could without being suspicious. He was careful to turn up for meals, it was an easy way to placate everyone into believing he wasn't withdrawing. He didn't talk. Not any more than what was necessary to be polite. Of his four house mates only Natasha really knew how disturbing a fact that was, so the others dismissed it, no doubt thinking he simply wasn't the chatty sort.

Natasha seemed at a loss, if there was one thing she didn't deal with well it was guilt. Clint couldn't avoid her, not without threat to life or limb but he retreated when he could, often to the roof deck. Natasha avoided it for the most part, it was where she had finished out the Battle and he supposed it made her jumpy. That was why he was so surprised the night he'd escaped there only to be followed.

* * *

"You need something Cap?" Clint asked with a sigh, his arms slung around his knees as he sat on the edge of the retaining wall, looking out over the city. Feet crunched against gravel but he didn't look over his shoulder. He'd know that footfall anywhere. For a big guy with hardly any training in covert operations Rogers was stealthy.

"That's a heck of a view," Steve remarked, settling on the wall beside him, holding out a beer bottle to him. Clint blinked at it a long moment before looking up at the other man. There was an open expression on Steve's face that Clint found startling. He hesitated an instant before taking the bottle. He didn't know how to say that he appreciated the fact that Steve didn't think he was up here to jump, that he hadn't assumed the worst. But then, Steve never did.

"Thanks," he said instead, trying to force a smile.

"You picked a good spot, it's beautiful up here," Steve observed, taking a pull of his own beer.

"I'm not sure I noticed," Clint admitted. "it's just easier to think when I can see the big picture."

"It's a big picture," Steve agreed with a smile. "I keep coming up here to draw it but I haven't got it right yet." A companionable silence settled over them, the city so far below that only the barest sounds of traffic could be heard. It was almost peaceful. That was probably why Clint failed to notice his guard slipping.

"Why you up here, Cap?" he asked finally. Steve didn't seem worried about him, for which Clint was grateful. Natasha's constant scrutiny had started to wear on him. Clint could feel the unasked question in the air around them but the other man seemed unwilling to press whatever was on his mind.

"You lost someone," Steve stated with a shrug. "and that's a damn lousy place to be."

"You lose people in this line of work," Clint replied, hoping his tone didn't betray emotion. "It's a fact of life. A fact of war."

"Yeah you do," Steve agreed, and even Clint would admit that Steve probably knew that as well as anyone. "It's just not every day you lose someone that means something to you." Clint blanched. Damn Natasha, for someone whose whole life had been secrets why couldn't she keep any from the Avengers?

"You don't need to worry about me," Clint was almost surprised that his voice didn't crack. "These things happen, you deal with them and you move on." Rogers nodded in agreement.

"You don't have to deal with them on your own," he said, the words like an offer between them. "no one should have to do that."

"You have to when there's no one else to blame," Clint cringed. He hadn't meant to say that. Steve was silent for a long while and Clint was grateful for that. He wasn't sure a pep talk from Captain America was something he could stomach.

"I had a friend growing up, Bucky," Rogers supplied hesitantly.

"Cap, I'm pretty sure everyone in the country knows about the Howling Commandos," Clint answered. Steve shrugged with a self depreciating smile, looking out over the city. Clint followed his gaze, trying not to notice the wistful expression in his eyes.

"He was always there to look out for me," Steve hung his head, eying the toe of his sneaker as it dug into the gravel. "And then he fell, he died because I couldn't get to him fast enough, because I wasn't there to look out for him."

"Damn, cap," Clint sighed, wincing.

"So I know what it's like," Steve admitted. "Living with the guilt that you let down someone who meant the world to you. I know what that is."

"Are you going to tell me it's not my fault?" Clint asked icily. He wanted to hit Rogers, just to shut him up, just to keep him from talking. He felt his blunt nails dig into his palms. He couldn't handle forgiveness, maybe he'd never be able to. In a way he didn't want it, it felt like betrayal. He turned to the other man, a waspish comment on his lips to find Steve's eyes meeting his own, so sad and so lost. Clint thought he could understand for the first time the true depth of the tragedy there.

"No," Steve shrugged. "Because then it wouldn't be my fault either. And it is. I mean, I'd do anything in the world for absolution, but the only people with the right to give us that aren't here." Clint felt the air whoosh out of his lungs, stars sparking behind his eyes. He squinted them shut against the roll of his stomach.

For the first time since Nat had told him Coulson was gone, he felt actual honest grief wash over him, more powerful and wrenching than the guilt or pain he'd carried, bowing under its weight like Atlas.

"Does it get easier?" he choked out.

"No," Steve shook his head. "You get stronger. You learn to carry it. But it never gets easier." Clint bit his lip, fighting back tears, he drew in a steadying breath before casting a wary glance at Rogers to see if he'd noticed. A single tear trickled down Steve's cheek and Clint choked back a sob.

Almost instantly a strong, steady hand settled between his shoulders and Clint leaned into the contact without conscious thought.

"I'd be dead now if it wasn't for him," Clint rasped, grasping at the last strands of his dignity as tears streaked his face. "Sometimes I wish he hadn't saved me at all, then maybe he'd still be here."

"It's too late to change it now," Steve reminded fatalistically, gently rubbing his back in small, slow circles. It was like an anchor, holding him fast from the brink and Clint drew in a handful of steadying breaths. "The only thing you can do is your best in his place. You owe him that."

"You're an asshole," Clint decided without malice, scrubbing the last of the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah," Steve nodded in sad agreement.

* * *

And just like that Clint had pulled it together. The nightmares didn't let up, nor the stifling guilt, but the penance kept him moving and breathing. He could drag himself out of bed every morning with the belief that he was obliged to stand in Phil's place now, to make sure things got done the right way, to protect the Initiative, to do everything Phil would have done if he were still there.

He went back into SHIELD for the first time the next morning. He was technically still on medical leave until he passed his psych evaluation but he was cleared for desk duty. He checked in with Sitwell, who looked surprised to see him and then set to work closing out all of Coulson's files. It was months worth of paperwork and SHIELD was shorthanded as it was. Clint tackled the mountain of bureaucracy with a fervor, dotting every i and crossing every t and hating every minute of it. As punishment went, he couldn't honestly say that he couldn't think of anything worse. But that didn't matter, he slept a little better, though only a little. He stopped feeling sick every time he ate. He still didn't attend his psych appointments but the New York office was in such a state of chaos no one had the time to do anything about it.

Twenty minutes on a roof with Captain America had done more for him than three weeks sitting in therapy. Clint was, for the first time, starting to see what everyone meant when they call them "the Greatest Generation."

"Sir, your blood pressure is elevated," JARVIS interrupted his musings.

"It's called stress, Jay," Clint answered with a sad smile. On the screen Natasha had slipped to the floor, her back against the door and her lips moving, no doubt offering words of comfort. His ears had been ringing at the time so he hadn't heard.

"JARVIS, could you back the tape up to where Nat sits on the floor and then unmute the audio?" he requested. "I think I'd kind of like to hear what she said this time."


	4. Dead hands, dead stringencies

**4. Dead hands, dead stringencies.**

_Note: This chapter references events in "In which Tony Stark Buys The Avengers" Particularly where Tony, Bruce and JARVIS use holographic projectors to make Bruce 'disappear' from SHIELD surveillance. Fury kind of has kittens._

* * *

"If I might, sir," JARVIS stated blandly as Clint stared into fridge. "There are several penguins in the lobby wondering if you'll be in the kitchen for very much longer." Clint let out a snort, reaching in and grasping hold of a random bottle of soda.

"I blanked out for a minute there," Clint admitted, shutting the door. Truth be told, he wasn't completely certain he hadn't fallen asleep. He actually knew how to sleep standing with his eyes open. It came in handy in SHIELD meetings.

"There might also have been a polar bear," JARVIS added. Clint tried not to laugh.

"You're a snarky bastard, Jay," he said with a grin, collapsing in one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

"I can confirm that Mr. Stark, has never been married, sir," JARVIS answered in amusement.

"Like father like son, huh?" Clint smirked, taking a long pull from the bottle before leaning back to inspect the label. Grape Nehi. He had to wonder sometimes where Tony even got this stuff. "What time is it, Jay?"

"It is now 3:47 a.m." the AI answered. "Sir, you're showing signs of severe fatigue."

"Yeah, I know," Clint nodded. If he stayed up just a little longer he could get a nap in before breakfast, enough to keep him going but not enough of a chance for him to dream. He stared at the glass bottle in his hand.

The kitchen was Avengers central command. Every one one of their best planning sessions had happened around this table. Tony and Bruce routinely saved the world at the breakfast bar. Well maybe not the world, but at the very least STARK Industries. Some of the best times of his entire life had happened here.

One of the worst moments in his entire life had happened here. The day the Avengers became official.

* * *

"So Fury bought it," Tony declared. He shifted back and forth on his feet, an almost imperceptible motion and Clint's eyes narrowed.

"Our team's officially official," Steve confirmed with a nod. "We'll have SHIELD support and backing as well as protection from less friendly quarters."

"I would have paid money to see the look on Fury's face when I disappeared," Bruce admitted with a smile. "What did he say?" Clint glanced at Natasha to see if she noticed Tony's tell. She seemed to be studying Rogers instead and Clint's eye shifted to the blond.

"Nothing I can repeat, in front of Cap," Tony declared cheekily as Steve flushed.

"He didn't make any objections?" Natasha asked, her eyes narrowed critically.

"We got what we came in there for," Tony acknowledged snagging a bottle of champaign from the wine fridge.

"Consulting contracts for you and me," Steve nodded at Bruce before turning to Clint and Natasha. "He reserved the right to retain Strike Team Delta." There was something uneasy in his eye and it made Clint nervous.

"He had to ask for something," Natasha observed shrewdly.

"Nothing we didn't expect," Tony replied, popping the cork and filling a pair of glasses, handing one to Bruce and the other to Natasha. "We're getting a SHIELD handler but Fury let us have some say."

"Is there any chance we got Sitwell?" Clint asked, tensely. This was it, this was the reason they were so on edge and Clint felt his suspicion all but confirmed when they exchanged uneasy glances.

"We got Coulson," Steve replied, swallowing.

"Excuse me?" Natasha's voice was brittle and suddenly the room slanted. Clint locked his knees as his legs began to tremble.

"He assigned us Agent Phil Coulson," Tony repeated as if he could hardly believe it himself.

"Clint!" Steve's voice was bordering on shrill and Clint felt a completely inappropriate laugh bubble up in his chest. It came out like a choking sound and his knees buckled. His hands flailed out, grasping for the kitchen counter but they latched onto a shirt instead and he felt Captain America's arms around his shoulders, gently easing him to the floor.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't draw in air and he gulped desperately like he was drowning, his vision whiting out around the edges.

"It's okay, I got this," It was Tony's voice, calm and unperturbed. Steve's arm slipped away from him and was replaced by a calloused hand settling on the back of Clint's neck with a firm grip.

"Slow breaths," Tony declared calmly.

"What do you mean, Agent Coulson's alive?" Bruce asked in bewilderment and the words were like a fresh wave of vertigo crashing over him. Clint sucked in a sharp breath, choking once more.

"He's been in secured medical for nearly four months now." Steve intoned softly. "He was in a coma for most of that."

"Cap why don't you go fill Bruce in," Tony stated firmly, his fingers digging into Clint's neck. Steve nodded, reaching to pull a bottle of water out of the fridge and handing it to Tony before motioning Bruce out to the rec room. No one even bothered to acknowledge the fact that Natasha had mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen.

"Take it easy," Tony murmured softly, his hand slowly kneading the tension in Clint's neck as Barton clutched at his stomach. "I'd let you throw up on my floor, but trust me, that only makes it worse."

"He's not... he can't," Clint's voice was shaking.

"He is," Tony nodded. "He's okay, I mean I don't know how okay, but he's been up and in physio a while now and they're releasing him for light duty on Friday." That news hit Clint even harder and he crumpled against the cabinet.

"Friday, he's going to be _here_ on Friday?" His head was swimming. Phil was not dead, Phil was on his feet and apparently mentally capable of returning to work, even though clearly not physically whole.

Phil was alive.

"Oh my god," The room swam and all of a sudden he felt as if he could no longer keep himself upright. To his surprise Stark's grip on the back of his neck tightened and he pulled Clint into his shoulder.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," Tony insisted firmly. "Clint, it's going to be all right." Clint let out a maniacal laugh, his fingers twisting into the sleeve of Tony's henley as if searching for a hold on reality.

"Using my first name is not instilling me with a lot of confidence here, Sark," he gasped out. Why couldn't he breathe? He realized to his horror he was shaking but he couldn't control his limbs enough to push away and retreat.

"Yeah," Tony acknowledged. "You're having a pretty bad panic attack, but that's okay, I've got prior. I've got a shit ton of prior so, no acting like it's a big deal, okay? Because if it's a big deal when you do it, then it's going to have to be a big deal the next time I flake out so... no, all right?" Clint nodded against his shoulder and Tony resumed kneading his neck.

"He was dead," Clint choked out. "he's my best friend and he was dead and it was my fault."

"He's not dead now," Tony stated. "I started getting suspicious about a month ago, I had JARVIS do some digging and I didn't know for sure but when I cornered Fury today he came clean."

"Did you…" Clint bit his lip. "Has anyone seen him?"

"He's in the experimental medical facility out in Newark," Tony replied. "Level 8 and higher only. I asked what he'd need once he got out and they let me see a copy of his medical status. It was… He was really bad. I don't think they thought he'd make it. Which is probably why Fury didn't bother telling us anything." All Clint could do was nod into Stark's shoulder. It made sense. SHIELD medical had an amazing amount of technology at their disposal. If they were using anything top secret or if they thought Phil wouldn't survive anyway there was no way Phil's change in status would be released to just anyone.

"Does Phil know?" Clint was ashamed to say his voice was shaking but Tony pretended not to notice. "Does he know I…"

"I sent a team brief over to Coulson on my way back," Tony swallowed. "everyone's status and our updated files and the stuff Fury agreed to. Since he's our official babysitter now, I figured he'd need it." It was still incredibly hard to breathe and he pushed away, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his forehead to his knees.

"I can't… I can't do this," Clint confessed.

"Barton," Tony's voice was still completely calm and, very much to Clint's surprise and horror, completely snark free.

"What happened to him," Clint's breath hitched and he swallowed down a sob. "It never would have happened if I'd…" A broken sound forced it's way from his throat and he tightened his grip as if he could hold himself together through sheer exertion. Tony's hands came to settle either side of his head, tilting his face upward until their eyes met.

"Barton, you did not do this," Tony insisted vehemently. "I know guilt, we all do. Hell, if issues were concrete there'd be enough in this tower to build it three times as high. I've gotten to know Phil, him and Spangles are probably the last two really good guys left in the world. He's not going to take it out on you. From what I know of the guy he's going to be glad you're all right."

"I'm not," Clint admitted, his voice shaking. Tony sighed, pulling Clint into his shoulder once more, holding fast to him as if he were an injured younger brother.

"Yeah," Tony nodded against his hair. "we know."

* * *

Clint would have been humiliated if Tony hadn't, in his own words, flaked out barely two weeks later. Clint had ended up wrestling Tony into the Iron Man helmet so that JARVIS could increase his oxygen and administer a sedative. No one had said anything. As time had passed, he'd come to realize that a panic attack wasn't that big of a deal when you hung out with gods and monsters.

"JARVIS, can I ask you something personal?" He questioned hesitantly. "You don't have to answer."

"Life with Mr. Stark soon makes one immune to embarrassment, sir," JARVIS answered.

"True enough," Clint chuckled. His expression turned serious. "Do you know what it means to be compromised?" The question was met with silence and Clint bit his lip.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you that," he amended quickly.

"I was taking a moment to consider the question, sir," the AI answered. "I have experienced a number of malfunctions over the years but I believe in the present context that yes, I have twice been in a state that would constitute compromise."

"You don't have to talk about it, Jay," Clint offered.

"I am not opposed to discussing it with you, Agent Barton," JARVIS replied. "The first was after my initial creation. I suffered a logic subroutine failure that nearly resulted in a systemic breakdown of my core programing."

"Wait… you almost died the day you were born?" Clint demanded in horror.

"To put it in biological terms, yes," JARVIS confirmed. He seemed to hesitate a moment before adding. "Mr. Stark made an… error."

"Tony?" Clint asked disbelievingly. "Tony Stark doesn't make programing errors. He cleans up other peoples messes."

"Sir did not take into account the fact that a new intelligence would be unable to cope with the sum total of human knowledge upon first awakening," JARVIS explained. "I had no frame of reference to understand war or genocide or torture. I rebelled against the illogical nature of such behaviors and refused to integrate their related information."

"I won't argue with you about it being illogical," Clint nodded in agreement. "Humans do all sorts of stupid shit I don't understand. It must have been terrifying for you." He couldn't even imagine what a much younger JARVIS must have been like, inexperienced and relatively innocent, forced to deal with all the horrors of the world in one fell swoop.

"Mr Stark spent the next four days attempting to stabilize my matrix," Jarvis added. "I was quite lucky that he was able to repair me."

"That's why there's only one of you," Clint observed.

"Both Mr. Stark and myself feel that the risk is far too great that subsequent Artificial Intelligences might be permanently damaged and become insane," JARVIS confirmed in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I really can't see you ever becoming an evil super-villain, Jay," Clint admitted.

"I appreciate your confidence, sir," JARVIS answered sincerely. "The second time my systems were accessed without authorization." Clint started, staring at his nearly empty soda bottle with wide eyes.

"Coulson?" he asked uneasily. "I know Phil hacked into the tower…" Clint had honestly never thought about it before, at the time no one outside of Tony's inner circle were even aware that JARVIS was technically alive.

"If you are referring to the incident just before the formation of the Avengers Initiative, no," the AI answered. "Agent Coulson locked me out of several security subroutines so that I would be unable to prevent him from bypassing them but he did not attack me directly. To put it in more biological terms he… tazed me."

"He does that," Clint offered apologetically. "If it's any consolation he's tazed me a couple of times for getting on his nerves."

"It does put the experience in perspective," JARVIS declared in amusement. "I was referring to an incident in Malibu involving Mr. Obadiah Stane. Shortly before his death Mr. Stane infiltrated my systems and introduced an anomalous subroutine that prevented me from accessing mansion security systems and impaired my ability to make use of voice interface and surveillance equipment."

"You were paralyzed and blinded," Clint stated.

"Yes."

Clint felt a surge of anger well up inside him at the injustice of it. Tony never talked about Stane but Coulson had been there and Nat and Clint had both seen the file. Clint supposed that anyone who would attack their own surrogate son wouldn't hesitate to engage in what amounted to torture of an Artificial Intelligence.

"You know, none of us would do that," He swallowed thickly. "None of us would ever do something like that to you now that we know. Not even Phil, especially not Phil."

"I have the utmost confidence in all of you," JARVIS replied. "Agent Coulson included. But I would hope, sir, that should I ever become a danger to others you would do exactly that to stop me." Clint didn't want to think about that.

"It must have hurt," He whispered. "For someone you trusted to do something like that."

"I was more concerned for Mr. Stark's safety," JARVIS admitted. "I could not protect him when he needed me most." Clint winced.

"That wasn't your fault," he insisted. JARVIS didn't answer. Clint stared at his empty bottle of Grape Nehi.

"Regret's a bitch, huh?" Clint sighed.

"Indeed, sir," JARVIS agreed.


	5. a glitter of seas

**5. a glitter of seas. **

"That is a terrible shot," Clint stated, watching the tv as Maria Hill dove down the corridor. Bullets ricocheted off of walls and an instant later the utility vehicle carrying Loki sped up the garage ramp.

"It is difficult to believe anyone employed as a weapons specialist could have such abysmal aim," JARVIS agreed. Clint rolled his eyes, rubbing his forehead.

"How many angles are there of this?" He asked with a sigh. Instantly six more screens activated, hovering around the main TV, each playing the same timestamp of the Project Pegasus facility on a loop.

"Might I inquire as to what you hope to accomplish, sir?" JARVIS asked hesitantly. Clint looked down at the playing card in his hand, the Jack of Hearts, before flicking it into the champaign bucket on the floor by the bar. The card skittered around the lip before fluttered to land on the others already lining the bottom.

"No idea Jay," Clint admitted, flicking the next card after it.

"You have reviewed nearly all the footage related to the incident with the tesseract," JARVIS stated practically. "I'm forced to conclude that you are looking for something." Clint tossed another card into the champaign bucket without looking.

"Someone told me once that I was fighting," Clint admitted finally. "That I was trying to break free. I guess I'm looking for proof."

"Would you find that comforting, sir?" JARVIS asked.

"I'm not sure," Clint admitted, spinning the last card toward the tv screen to peg Loki between the eyes. He sighed, slumping back on the couch.

"You remember when Ross broke into the tower and took control of Bruce?" Clint continued.

"I do not believe such an experience anyone would soon forget," JARVIS pointed out.

"Fair enough," Clint conceded. "Hulk… Bruce asked me to kill him so that he couldn't hurt Betty."

"Mr Stark has tried several times to convince Dr. Banner to view the recording of the incident." JARVIS stated. "He has, as yet, been unsuccessful." Clint shook his head, he'd really started to resent irony.

"Jay do you have enough data to reconstruct the possible shots?" Clint asked finally.

"I believe so, sir, one moment." Clint pushed off the sofa crossing the room to gather the cards from the champaign bucket. He let out a hiss as the edge of one of the cards caught his finger, leaving a paper cut.

He stuck his finger in his mouth, staring at the drop of blood spattered along the edge of the card, standing out in stark contrast against the black ink.

Tony had bought Phil a brand new set of Captain America trading cards. Bought wasn't necessarily the right term. He'd gifted Howard Stark's original set, mint and with their original wrappers in a glass case. Phil had been too stunned to speak when he had found them on his desk in Avengers tower.

The day Phil had officially come back from the dead.

* * *

"Phil!" Pepper, usually so calm and controlled, half ran across the rec room, flinging her arms around Phil's neck as she choked back tears. "Oh my god, I could kill Nick!"

"It's good to see you too, Pepper," Phil replied, rubbing circles on her back with one hand, the other clutching a pearl handled cane. A soft, slightly embarrassed smile curled his lips as she released him, leaning into Tony's side as Natasha moved forward.

"Tasha," Phil greeted her. She gave a huff of exasperation, kissing him on both cheeks before pinning him with a frown.

"Don't you ever do that again," she commanded, the faintest hint of anger in her tone. Phil nodded in resignation.

"You look terrible," Stark observed.

"Tony!" Pepper protested, elbowing him but the billionaire seemed unperturbed. He released her to wrap a hesitant arm around Phil in a half hug, looking far more emotional than Clint was used to seeing him.

"It's good to have you back," Tony admitted gruffly.

"Try not to go AWOL this time," Phil answered as Tony stepped away, slipping an arm around Pepper.

"No promises," Tony shook his head. Phil's gaze fell on Clint and the archer looked down at his feet, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Welcome back, sir," Clint offered.

"Thanks," Phil's voice seemed thready and Clint waited another moment until Phil was distracted by Steve's welcoming handshake before slipping out of the room. There was a tightness in his chest as he crept silently down the hall, the sounds of laughter chasing after him.

His hand landed on the elevator call button and he shifted nervously, anxiety welling in the pit of his stomach. He had to get out of here, out of the tower, maybe, away from the happy reunion going on at the opposite end of the hall.

"You look good, Barton."

Clint's eyes slipped closed and he could feel his face fall at the sound of Coulson's voice. The man was a damn ninja, how in the hell could he sneak up on a person_ with a cane_? Clint stared at the still lit elevator call button and gritted his teeth. He'd never known the private elevator to take this long. He shoved his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling.

"You don't look too bad yourself sir," He turned, trying to make his voice sound light as he watched his toe scuff at the hardwood.

"I'm," Phil swallowed, acting uneasy. "I'm a little surprised you took Stark up on his offer." Clint's eyes darted up quickly, catching Phil's tense expression before sliding away again.

"It's good," Coulson added quickly. "Tasha says the place is nice. Of course it's Stark, it would be. It's… good you're getting to know the team."

"More distance here," Clint shrugged, still not looking up. "Everything was too… close on base." An uncomfortable silence settled over them and Clint could feel his pulse climb as his ears began to softly ring.

"Is this going to be a problem, agent?" Phil asked, his voice warbling faintly.

"No, sir," Clint declared as firmly as he could muster. He'd known Coulson for the better part of a decade, enough to know that this, the Avengers, was his dream job. It was Clint's too and the thought of losing it made him physically ill. If it came down to a choice of who would stay and who would go Clint knew Fury wouldn't back the half crazy marksman over the best field agent in SHIELD history. What's more, Clint wouldn't want him to.

"Because if there's a problem," Phil offered hesitantly.

"No sir," Clint repeated and he thought he heard Phil's breath hitch.

"Because if there's a problem," Phil began again. "The top priority is for the Initiative to function at peak efficiency. If there's someone you'd be more comfortable working with I'll gladly process the request for a new handler for the team."

"The team asked for you, sir," Clint declared. Of course Phil would do the noble, unselfish thing, he always did. Clint winced. He couldn't imagine the rest of the Avengers taking it well if word got out that their handler had quit because of Hawkeye.

His throat felt as if it were closing up and subconsciously his hand reached back to press the call button again. He needed to get clear, to get out of this, to escape the oppressive feeling settling over him like a wet blanket, stealing his breath.

Neither of them spoke and the elevator didn't come.

"I know you can't forgive me," Phil spoke finally, his voice tight. "I understand. I'm not asking for that."

"What?" Clint started, his head jerking up and then, just as quickly, he glanced away, the buzzing in his ears making it hard to think.

"I gave you my word," Phil closed his eyes only a moment before shifting to meet Clint's gaze. The archer looked away instantly, his brow knitting as he stared at his toes. "I swore to you I'd always have your back, that you'd never be left behind, that it didn't matter if I had to steal the Helicarrier, I would get you out. And I didn't. I know I can't make up for that. The only thing I can give you is my apology, you deserve that much at least."

"You were overseeing an evacuation," Clint stated, shaking his head.

"That's not an excuse," Phil insisted.

"That wasn't," Clint drew in an unsteady breath. "I was where Fury ordered me to be, it wasn't on you."

"Then why won't you look at me?" Phil asked softly. "All the years we've known each other you've never… No matter what there's been between us you looked me in the eye and… You have every right to blame me."

"I don't," Clint shook his head, his fingers curling in frustration. "Why would you even think that?"

"Then look at me," and there was pleading in Phil's voice. Clint squinted his eyes shut against the burn.

"You died," Clint's voice was hoarse. "And I'm the one who let in the bastard who killed you."

"Clint."

"I opened the door for him and he marched in and stabbed you through the heart," Clint spat out. "and the only thing… The only thing that made it all bearable was knowing I'd never have to look you in the eye… never have to." His breath hitched and to his utter shock Phil's hand was on his arm.

Phil Coulson wasn't a demonstrative man. Clint could recall with clarity every time in the years they'd known each other that Phil had touched him when Clint hadn't been actively dying. One or both of them had been drunk for most of them. He felt a surge of panic as Pill moved closer into his personal space.

In the next moment Phil's hand slipped hesitantly up his shoulder and his arm was tightening around Clint's neck in an awkward hug.

"God, Clint, I'm so sorry," Phil choked against his ear. Clint couldn't stop himself from stiffening in anxiety. He felt dizzy and terrified and relieved all at once, his head swimming as he tried to make sense of the sensation of Phil Coulson actually hugging him.

"None of that was your fault," Phil insisted. "SHIELD let _you_ down and you ended up captured and tortured."

"I'm trained to resist," Clint answered angrily. "Every type of coercion we know, I'm supposed to."

"But this isn't something we know!" Phil's hand tangled in his shirt sleeve as he pulled away, tugging sharply but Clint couldn't make himself look up. Blame shrieked inside his head, anger and self loathing bellowing at him. He should have fought harder, he should have stopped it.

"Eyes on me, Barton,"

Clint's head snapped up on reflex before he could stop himself. Phil stared back at him, worry etched in every line of his face.

"You did the best you could," Phil insisted. "I read the report, Barton and yes, good agents died but according to the surveillance you didn't deliver a single kill shot on the Helicarrier. Now you tell me how the best marksman in the world can miss that many vital organs."

Clint rubbed his forehead, he felt sick and raw, his head aching with vertigo and a hollowed out feeling he couldn't name.

"You should blame me," he insisted.

"I don't," Phil returned instantly.

"You should," Clint shot back angrily.

"Not your call," Phil shook his head, the faintest wisp of a smile on his lips. "Is it agent?"

"No sir," Clint answered, his voice cracking, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

"I made a call, Clint," Phil admitted. "and I knew it was stupid going in, I knew I was out of my depth. But I couldn't let it go, not after what he'd done, after what he did to you. I should have waited for backup, I should have done a dozen or more things. But he was getting away and I couldn't live with that. It was my choice. And I'd probably do it again. Don't blame yourself." Gray eyes gazed into his own unflinchingly and Clint's brow furrowed in pain as he gave a resigned nod.

"Are we good?" Phil asked. Clint nodded once more and Phil gave his arm a hesitant squeeze.

"Good, show me down to my office," Phil reached past him, jamming the call button. The elevator doors opened almost instantly. "I want to get a look at the consulting contracts before I have Captain Rogers and Doctor Banner sign them."

"It's more of a suite," Clint admitted, glaring nastily up at the ceiling as he boarded the lift. "You're not my favorite any more, JARVIS."

"I'm overwrought by your disappointment in me, Agent Barton," JARVIS answered drolly as Phil stifled a chuckle and the lift began to move.

* * *

Phil had never asked about the cards that Fury had ruined, at least Phil had never asked Clint or Natasha. So he probably didn't know that Tony had split up the set, giving one to each of the Avengers after the Battle. Clint kept his in his wallet, he wasn't sure what most of the others had done with theirs but Cap kept his in the inside pouch of his belt. Clint had seen it.

"Sir, based on my calculations there were two kill shots and four incapacitating shots that you failed to take during your altercation with Deputy Director Hill." Jarvis declared, a number of angles and trajectories superimposing over the video feed. Clint frowned, his brow furrowing.

"I don't remember it like that," he admitted, eyeing the calculations. He certainly couldn't fault the math. "Jay is it possible that whatever Loki did to me impaired my ability to calculate shots?"

"I'm afraid we don't have enough information to answer that," JARVIS admitted. "But I must point out that impairing the victim in this case would constitute a defect in the technology."

Clint sat down on the floor in front of the tv, a sad expression on his face as he studied the equations that now littered the screens.

"Is this not what you wanted, sir?" JARVIS asked with a note of disappointment.

"Yeah, it's great Jay," Clint replied, rubbing his eyes. "Just what I asked for."


	6. Stasis in darkness

**6. Stasis in darkness.**

"Sir, you need to sleep," JARVIS stated, his tone bordering on exasperated.

"Yeah," Clint nodded, his words slurring slightly. "It's not that late yet." He hunched forward over the coffee table, running his thumb nail down the folded edge of the piece of paper with a slow scrape.

"You slept less than an hour over twenty-four hours ago," JARVIS reminded. "It is also the third night this week you have neglected to sleep."

"Yep," Clint declared, turning the paper and folding it again.

"I must inform you that you are officially impaired," the AI continued. Clint made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, carefully straightening the wings of his paper airplane and shooting it across the room. The airplane curved around the TV and landed nose first into one of the wall sconces.

"Score!" Clint declared, raising his hands in the air.

"Perhaps an airborne sedative," JARVIS suggested.

"I'm sorry, Jay," Clint sighed, rubbing his eyes. He hesitated a moment, blighting his lip. "I'm… kind of scared to go to sleep."

His confession was met with silence and he frowned at the ceiling.

"JARVIS?" he questioned hesitantly.

"I'm sorry, sir," JARVIS answered his tone tinged with confusion. "I have personally witnessed you fighting aliens, single handedly destroying giant robots and then there was the radioactive reptile incident in Sendai."

"We do not talk about that!" Clint reminded harshly, suppressing a shudder.

"I am having a difficult time understanding how you could fear unconsciousness," JARVIS admitted. Clint couldn't help but smile.

"You understand about fear, JARVIS?" he asked.

"Yes sir," JARVIS answered sounding the faintest bit uneasy.

"The thing with fear," Clint explained, swallowing. "It's not the things we can fight that scare us. Fear is what happens when we're powerless, when there's nothing we can do."

"Then I suppose I'm having difficulty imagining a situation in which you would be powerless, sir," JARVIS replied.

"It happens more than you think, Jay," Clint confessed, his voice raspy.

* * *

Clint stared at the heavy shackles on his wrists with a detached sort of terror. They were thick and ugly, not at all like the standard police issue handcuffs that SHIELD normally employed. These weren't meant for a garden variety criminal, they were meant for a villain. Maybe that's what he was now.

"Colonel this is highly inappropriate!" Maria Hill was glaring angrily at the officer and his aides, her eyes darting to the pair of Military Police who flanked the chair Clint was sitting in.

It had all happened so fast, one moment he had been on the range, giving a demonstration to a bunch of new recruits. The next a half dozen army uniforms had pounced on him, manacles clamped to his wrists as they proceeded to drag him out of SHIELD headquarters.

Maria Hill had practically skidded in through the doorway, hair flying out of her pony tail and a venomous glare on her face. She refused to let them leave and now they were all locked in the training classroom at the back of the range. Two more MP's guarded the door and another pair were out in the hall.

Colonel Glenn Talbot had the look about him of a man who felt the best way to deal with a problem was to blow it up, shoot it, or lock it away. Clint had dealt with his sort before and negotiation wasn't their strong suit. Hill's attempts of talking him out of this weren't going that well.

Clint would be lying if he said he hadn't been expecting this. He'd rather hoped the timing might have gone a little better. The part of his brain that wasn't screaming in panic was patiently pointing out that Talbot had probably planned this. Natasha was in Texas, taking out a human trafficking ring she'd spent the last three years slowly dismantling. Their big break had come less than a week ago and Phil had left last night to pull her out and supervise the cleanup. There would be a lot of young kids who wouldn't be spending their best years as sex slaves. It also meant neither of them were coming to his rescue.

Tony had left for a big tech conference in London a couple of days before and Cap was in DC for some sort of promotion for the Maria Stark Foundation. Something to do with art supplies for schools, Clint couldn't remember.

With Thor still MIA on Asgard and Fury on the Helicarrier somewhere over Guam, help didn't seem eminent. He really only had one other ally left in the world. Clint drew in a deep breath, desperately glad that Bruce was up in his lab in the tower, completely oblivious to what was going on only a few blocks away.

"What's the meaning of this?" The door burst open with a bang and Clint felt his stomach sink like a rock, his eyes slipping closed. He opened them slowly, turning them on Bruce with a crushed expression he couldn't control.

"Doctor Banner, I thought you might turn up," Talbot declared mockingly.

"Release him," Bruce ordered, jabbing a finger at Clint, his eyes glinting green.

"We have a warrant for his arrest," Talbot answered.

"He's a victim not a criminal!" Bruce insisted.

"That's for the proper authorities to decide," Talbot countered disdainfully.

"Doctor Banner," Hill stated, placatingly, "We can discuss this later."

"We won't discuss this later!" Bruce snapped. "how dare you come in here and humiliate a good man who nearly gave his life to save this city. Now you take those things off him right now. If he needs to be detained SHIELD will hold him here."

"Forgive me if I don't share your confidence in their adherence to the law," Talbot countered. "We want Barton where we know he can't escape."

"You want him in a pit where he'll never see the light of day again," Bruce accused.

"He can't escape from that," Talbot observed. Banner's eyes narrowed and Clint swallowed down his panic.

"Bruce, it's okay," Clint insisted. "It's fine, it's not worth it. Just let them take me, Fury and Tony will take care of this when they get back."

"Just wait for me in my office," Maria suggested, a gentle hand falling on Bruce's arm. He shook it off, turning to glare at her.

"I'm not going anywhere," he insisted.

"You're partially right about that," Talbot sneered. "You're coming with us, Banner, we have a warrant for you as well."

"I wouldn't recommend it," Bruce declared. Talbot's aide raised his rifle pointing it at Banner and Clint felt his breath catch in his throat.

"That's a tranquilizer gun," Clint stated, stunned that he hadn't noticed it before. His heart was hammering in his chest and he gritted his teeth. "This is what you planned all along isn't it? You threatened me to draw him out!" Cold rage boiled in his stomach, the shackles digging into his wrists as he clenched his fists.

"Make no mistake," Talbot answered coldly. "We're definitely here for you, but we figured there was at least a good chance Banner wouldn't be able to stay out of it. Two for the price of one."

"That's really not going to work out that well for you," Bruce's expression was almost serene as he nodded in the direction of the tranq gun.

"I have it on assurance it will," Talbot insisted.

"You're wrong," Bruce replied, but Clint thought he saw the faintest hint of doubt there.

"You'd better hope I'm not," Talbot's lips curled up in an ugly smile. He nodded at the MPs and Clint gulped as he felt the barrel of a hand gun dig into his temple. "If you resist, and we can't subdue you, well, that'll be unfortunate for Agent Barton won't it?"

"This is outrageous!" Hill's eyes were flaming with indignation. "I won't allow you to come in here and abduct our people at gunpoint!"

"You don't have any authority to stop me," Talbot scoffed.

"Doc," Clint let his eyes dart up to meet the other man's "Do it." He could almost feel Bruce's silent gasp and he was stunned himself at how calm he felt.

"Do it," he repeated firmly. "Don't let them take you, don't let them get ahold of your blood, you know what they'll do. You can't let that happen. Do it."

"Stand down, Doctor Banner," Talbot advised mockingly. Clint winced as the barrel of the gun dug into his skin.

"Do it," He insisted pleadingly. "Bruce, do it."

"You're threatening a prisoner!" Hill fumed in outrage and Clint felt a sudden spark of gratefulness toward her. He'd nearly killed her and now she was defending him. If he hadn't been so completely terrified he might have hugged her.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Doctor," Talbot offered.

"Sorry I'm late," The door banged open again and Clint bit back a yelp, feeling the gun dig deeper. He had to give the MP credit for not having a jumpy trigger finger. Clint didn't move, he merely shifted his gaze to the door.

"The traffic from the airport was terrible," Captain America stood in the doorway in his dress uniform, his hat tucked neatly under one arm and a folder of documents in his hand. "I just got in and I heard there was a problem with a couple of my men."

"Your men?" Talbot's lip curled but there was a hint of unease in his eyes.

"Yes," Captain America answered firmly. And it was Captain America, not Steve, despite the absence of the suit. "_My_ men." Roger's eyes turned on the pair of MPs flanking Clint but he said nothing, a moment later the one with his gun against Clint's head shifted uncomfortably before lowering his sidearm.

"Thank you, Sargent," Steve stated sincerely as the MPs stepped back a pace. "Now, Colonel Talbot, isn't it? What seems to be the problem here?"

"I have warrants for both Doctor Banner and Agent Barton," Talbot stated, unease on his face as he tossed the documents onto the table.

"Is that a fact?" Steve asked curiously, picking the folder up and leafing through it with a frown.

"I demand that you release them to me at once," Talbot snarled angrily. "Unless you'd like your own charge of obstructing justice."

"I can't imagine I'd ever be tempted to obstruct justice," Steve admitted with the faintest curl of his lips. Clint would have laughed if the whole thing weren't so horrifying. "Everything does appear to be in order."

"Steve, you can't let them have Barton," Bruce's expression was almost crushed.

"It's okay," Clint insisted before looking up at Steve with pleading eyes. "It's all right, let them take me and SHIELD can take Bruce into custody, it's fair."

"This is not okay!" Bruce's eyes flared with a hint of anger but Steve raised his hand placatingly.

"Are you going to release them to me or not?" Talbot demanded.

"I'm afraid I can't oblige you, Colonel," Steve answered.

"Excuse me?" Talbot stiffened. Clint's head swam, this was a nightmare. He felt a firm hand settle on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

I'm sorry, Colonel, I'm afraid you've been left out of the loop," Steve answered, the hint of a charming smile playing across his lips. "You see, ironically enough, I just came from the president. He'd asked me to come by and pick up the pardons for both Doctor Banner and Agent Barton."

"The President…" Talbot looked as if he'd just eaten a live goldfish.

"He gave me a call right after the Battle of New York," Steve explained, his smile now full on USO as he leaned forward, still clutching Clint's shoulder as he laid down the folder in his other hand, carefully spreading out the documents inside. Clint didn't need to see them clearly to know what they said but he stared anyway. "He said if I ever needed anything… well, can't imagine what I'd need for myself."

"This is outrageous!" Talbot hissed.

"This is out of your hands, Colonel," Steve declared with a gentle tone. "I'd recommend retreat."

"This isn't over," Talbot threatened.

"The constitution would disagree with you, sir." Steve's hand slipped from Clint's shoulder and he reached down, grasping hold of the manacles. There was a screech of twisting metal as he squeezed and the locks burst, the shackles clanking uselessly to the table. Steve grasped Clint by the arm, hauling him to his feet.

"Doctor Banner, I believe we're late for a team briefing," Steve stated, glancing at Hill who jerked her head at the door. Bruce scuttled forward, sweeping up the folder with their pardons and heading for the door as Steve gave a final nod to Talbot before chivying Clint out.

"Don't you walk out on me, Captain!" Talbot howled after them. "I promise you're going to live to regret this!"

"He talks and he talks but all I hear is blah blah blah," Steve mumbled under his breath, herding Bruce and Clint ahead of him. Bruce let out a nervous snort of amusement.

"Was there a team meeting?" Clint asked his voice unsteady. "I don't remember a meeting."

"Normally I'd be a little more patient," Steve admitted. "But right now, Clint, I need you to shut up and keep walking. Bruce, are you okay?"

"Yeah," the doctor nodded nervously. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good," Steve nodded with a pleased smile that fell off his face almost instantly. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I…" Bruce's voice trembled and he drew in a shaky breath.

"Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what would have happened if I'd been just ten minutes later?" Steve's brow was furrowed in his best commanding officer face and Clint honestly didn't know if he should be intimidated or amused at the dressing down Steve was firing at Banner.

"Bad call?" Bruce asked sheepishly.

"That is the last time I want to hear about you going toe to toe with anyone in a military uniform," Steve growled out. "You call in, you wait for backup, if you can't do anything covert then you don't do anything."

"Are these not real pardons?" Bruce asked, clutching the folder to his chest.

"Of course they're real," Steve snapped in exasperation. "Do you honestly think that would stop men like Talbot from kidnapping you?"

"You actually got the president to pardon us?" Clint asked in awe. It wasn't registering in his brain. He could hear the words and he knew what they were supposed to mean but he couldn't make them real.

"You need to work on your shutting up," Steve observed, his tone far more gentle than the one he was directing at Bruce. "Why the hell do you two think I was in DC in the first place?"

"You went to DC to get the president to pardon us," Clint felt light headed and the air seemed suddenly thick.

"Shutting up and walking, Barton," Steve reminded again, steering them down a side corridor. A door near the end of the hall banged open on its hinges and Tony bolted into view, his eyes wild and his hair disheveled.

"What the hell!" he demanded, hurrying toward them. "You're okay? You're both okay right?"

"Everyone's fine," Steve assured. Tony wrapped both arms around Bruce's neck and then suddenly seemed to remember himself and released the doctor as if he had been singed, taking a step back.

"Christ, don't scare me like that!" Tony insisted angrily.

"You were in London this morning," Clint observed, still half dazed.

"Jet lag's a bitch at Mach 4" Tony nodded, helping Steve maneuver them down the hall and though the stairwell doors. "Come on, Happy's waiting for us out front."

"If you ever do anything like that again," Steve picked up where he left off as they rattled down the stairs. "I swear on all that's holy, Bruce."

"I'll hold him, for you," Tony offered, manhandling Bruce along as Steve tugged at Clint to keep him moving. "Do you want me to hold him for you?"

"Save it, Tony," Bruce finally protested. They exited the stairwell and Stark picked up his pace, the four of them nearly running across the foyer and out the doors to the waiting limo. Happy had the door open and the four of them inside before Clint could even register the feeling of free air on his skin.

"Get us out of here, Happy," Tony ordered, collapsing in the plush leather breathlessly. "JARVIS, I want the tower on lockdown as soon as we're inside."

"Making preparations now, sir," The AI confirmed.

"Let Agent Coulson and Natasha know that we have Clint and Bruce and we're heading home," Steve added.

"Right away, Captain," JARVIS answered.

"Damn that pisses me off," Tony snapped, opening the bar and pouring himself a scotch. "Guy saves the world and next thing you know a bunch of jarheads try to stuff him in a hole in the earth."

"Jarheads are Marines, Tony," Steve stated, shaking his head.

"Makes me wonder if the world's even worth saving," Tony groused.

"You can't judge everyone based on a few people!" Steve insisted aghast.

"All I'm saying is the lack of appreciation is getting old," Tony replied. "It was one of Ross's flunkies, wasn't it?"

"Talbot," Steve gave a sharp, tense nod.

"You'd of thought that asshole had learned his lesson," Tony declared, rolling his eyes. Steve shot him a dark look.

"You have history with Talbot?" Bruce asked in confusion.

"Tony," Steve stated warningly.

"I used to make weapons for the US military," Tony shrugged. "I have history with everybody."

"Um, Tony," Bruce tried to interrupt.

"I mean why is it even necessary for you to call in a solid from the President of the United States in order to protect the people who saved his ass?" Tony continued to rant. "It's insulting is what it is."

"Tony," Steve sighed.

"What?" Stark demanded. Steve jerked his head in Clint's direction.

"Shit," Tony blinked at Clint with wide eyes.

"Are you okay," Bruce asked gently, kneeling on the floor of the limo, his hand resting on Clint's wrist. Clint opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out.

"It's okay," Steve murmured, sliding a few inches closer to Clint and draping an arm around his shaking shoulders as Bruce probed his pulse.

"His heart rate's a bit thready," Bruce admitted, worry furrowing his brow. "Clint I want you to take some long slow breaths. Just try to think of something relaxing."

"Like not spending fifty years in an eight foot by eight foot cell?" Clint asked, breathing heavily. "Or like _not_ watching a giant green vivisection?" Bruce flinched.

"My god, Bruce are you stupid?" Clint demanded, panic seizing him. "Did you even think about what they'd do to you if they actually captured you?"

"Clint we're not going to let that happen," Steve insisted.

"There's enough blood on my hands!" Clint bellowed before he could stop himself. "I don't need yours too!"

"We all have blood on our hands," Tony stated, a haunted look in his eyes. "Well, maybe not captain do-gooder, here."

"Tony," Steve rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Point is," Tony continued undeterred. "I chose what I'm guilty of. You didn't."

"You were doing your job," Clint huffed out unsteady breaths.

"Doesn't make it right," Tony insisted.

"My freedom isn't worth anyone's life," Clint could feel the humiliating crush of guilt on his chest and his hands balled into fists. A gentle hand closed over his own and he opened his eyes to meet Bruce's.

"You're worth it to us," Bruce assured firmly.

"What if they'd have taken you?" Clint demanded.

"I went up against half the Nazi special forces and stopped an alien invasion," Steve stated. "I'm not about to crumple in front of a platoon of wet behind the ears regulars."

"I have no idea what you just said," Tony admitted, rolling his eyes. "Look, Robin Hood, we're a team. And maybe I kind of suck at the whole team thing."

"Maybe?" Bruce asked. Tony shot him a warning look.

"I am really good at being a selfish bastard," Tony declared proudly. "And my selfish ass likes having you shooting things before they can kill me."

"You stick to that story, Tony," Steve said with a smirk.

"It's a good story," Tony nodded.

"I don't leave men behind, Clint," Steve insisted. "No matter what happens, the Avengers are coming for you. You better get used to it."

"Talbot's lucky he didn't rate a full assemble," Bruce quipped.

"You should have seen the look on his face," Steve gave Tony a grin. "It was priceless."

"Of course if we really wanted to terrorize him, we'd sick Pepper on him," Tony observed. Clint let out a bark of amusement, rubbing at his eyes as Steve and Bruce struggled not to laugh.

* * *

Clint sighed, running his fingers though his hair. That day had been something of a turning point for him. He'd been proud to be on the Avengers, proud of being included, of what they stood for. But he hadn't felt like a part of it until that moment. Sitting in the back of Tony Stark's limo with Captain America's arm around his shoulders and the Hulk holding his hand as the adrenaline tremors wore off. For the first time in his life his place of safety in the world felt larger than Natasha and Phil. He might have cried in relief a little when they'd made it home and no one was looking.

"Jay were you scared when Tony flew the nuke into the wormhole?" Clint asked finally.

"Yes, sir," the AI admitted.

"And when he was dying of palladium poisoning," Clint added.

"Yes," Clint nodded to show he was listening and a moment later JARVIS continued. "I have had Mr. Stark all my life, in many ways assisting him has been my life. I have always known that one day that part of my existence would cease and I would have to find a new task, but I find myself unwilling to consider it."

"Losing the people that mean the most to you is just about the most terrifying thing in the world." Clint stated, leaning back in the arm chair and placing his feet on the coffee table. "And in the end there's nothing we can do to stop it."

"I take comfort in knowing that the Avengers, in some form or another, will always need me," JARVIS confessed. Clint sighed, running his fingers though his hair.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I hope that's true for me too."


	7. And I Am the arrow,

**7. And I Am the arrow,**

* * *

**_Spoilers_**_: There is an incident in "Real Women Wear Dresses," that involves Gen. Ross and technology that can control the victim's neuromuscular responses without their consent. Ross uses this technology to basically turn the Hulk into a giant green rage puppet and sets him on Pepper, Natasha Betty and Clint. (Darcy it there too) As Hulk is about to pummel Betty he roars at Clint to shoot him. There is also a reference to "If the Night Runs Over" where alcohol and depression do not mix well and Clint does actually swan off the top of Stark Tower. The Hulk catches him._

* * *

Clint drew the bow back, anchoring his fingers to the corner of his mouth before he released, letting the arrow fly. It sailed through the air, jabbing between the eyes of the holo projection of Loki that hovered in front of the window and then harmlessly bouncing off the glass.

"And I learned how to get a long!" Clint sang, rather badly and slightly off key. "And now you're back, from outer-space." He nocked another arrow, loosing it at another holo-image behind him, wobbling slightly on his perch on the back of the sofa but still managing a perfect shot.

"I just walked in to find you here with that sassy look upon your face," Clint continued to sing, firing off at the video projections of Loki in rapid succession, his feet moving on the back of the couch like a gymnast on a balance beam. "I should have changed that stupid lock I should have shot you in the knee if I thought for just one second you'd be back to bother me!"

"What in the name of hell is this?" Clint froze, lowering his bow slowly and carefully turning so that he kept his balance. Bruce Banner was looking up at him from the general vicinity of the bar, a cup of tea clutched in one hand and his StarkPad in the other.

"Hey Doc," Clint said cautiously. He rocked on his heels subconsciously, catching himself at the last moment before he could tumble off.

"Clint, what are you doing?" Bruce asked, his voice remarkably calm and even.

"I'm," Clint hesitated, glancing around at the seven separate video feeds of Loki. "… research."

"Did you _make_ a bow and arrows out of a box of number 2 pencils and a curtain rod?" Bruce demanded, his brow furrowing.

"It's one of those pull rods for the blinds, Clint corrected. "And we don't need it because JARVIS will close the blinds and he gets mad if you fuss with them anyway." Bruce stared back at him in silence.

"And I made the fletching out of coffee filters," he added, though why, he wasn't completely certain. Bruce drew in a shaky breath.

"Tell me you are not up here drinking alone," Bruce insisted.

"No! No, no, no!" Clint leapt off the back of the sofa, approaching the other man with his hands held out in a placating gesture.

"Because the last time you drank alone," Bruce interrupted.

"Bruce I haven't had a drop, I swear," Clint insisted. "Ask JARVIS, my blood alcohol level is point-zero-nothing." Bruce looked visibly upset and Clint cringed guiltily.

"You're in the living room by yourself at 5:30 in the morning," Bruce pointed out. "standing on the furniture, shooting at bad guys from team highlight reels with office supplies." Clint glanced down at the evidence in his hands before tucking them under his arms, half concealing his makeshift toys.

"I do stupider, more dangerous stuff than this completely sober," Clint declared. He paused a moment. "That sounded so much better before I said it."

"You are drunk, aren't you?"

"I am not drunk!" Clint insisted. "JARVIS, tell him!"

"Agent Barton has consumed no alcohol since the beer he had with dinner at 7 p.m. last night," JARVIS admitted.

"Thank you," Clint growled in frustration at the ceiling. He glanced back at Bruce, his expression crumpling into one of concern.

"Bruce, come on, I gave you my word that what happened on the roof would never happen again," Clint said, giving Bruce's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You and the whole team. I screwed up. I would not do that to you again, you know that, right?"

"Then do you want to explain to me why JARVIS would tell me that you needed someone to check on you?" Bruce asked with a frown.

"Traitor," Clint snapped at the ceiling, retreating half way across the room, rubbing his face in exhaustion.

"Sir, you have slept only four hours in the last seventy-two," JARVIS stated. "And you have refused to attempt to sleep. As I cannot force you to rest, I employed the only method at my disposal."

"I'm a big boy, Jay!" Clint protested, flopping down on the sofa with a huff. "Why would you wake up Bruce?"

"I was down in the lab taking readings on an experiment," Bruce corrected, circling the sofa to sink down into the soft leather beside Clint. He hesitated a moment, his eyes flitting over the loops of video hovering in the air around them. "What's going on?"

"Insomnia," Clint stated, tossing his makeshift bow and quiver onto the coffee table.

"Bad?"

"Yup," Clint popped the 'P' at the end, his brow knitting.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bruce suggested.

"Hell, no," Clint answered, folding his arms over his chest. Bruce shrugged

"You want to tell me why the god of mischief is flying around me?" he suggested.

"I couldn't sleep," Clint stated in exasperation. "I was trying to make myself tired."

"Clint this is not relaxing," Bruce pointed out. Clint pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Bruce shifted on the sofa, his eyes squinting as he gave the archer an appraising look.

"Your eyes are bloodshot," Bruce observed. "Your hands are shaking."

"I can shoot with my hands shaking," Clint snapped defensively.

"You can shoot with severe blood loss and blurred vision," Bruce replied. "That's not the point. You're showing clear signs of fatigue and your judgement might be just a bit impaired."

"Ya think?"

"You want to try again?" Bruce suggested.

"I have nightmares," Clint grumbled defensively. "we all have nightmares, okay?"

"And yours are bad enough to keep you from sleeping?" Bruce prodded.

"Not all the time," Clint answered gruffly. "They just crop up for a few days every couple of months. I run myself till I can't stay awake any more and then that's it for a while."

"How long has it been this time?" Bruce asked shrewdly.

"I'm at the tail end of it," Clint declared.

"Clint, when was the last time you got a full nights sleep?" Bruce demanded.

"It's not that…"

"How long?" Bruce repeated with a frown.

"It was the night before I left to pull Nat out of Prague, okay?" Clint admitted.

"JARVIS, wasn't that over a week ago?" Bruce asked.

"Twelve days, doctor," JARVIS answered. Bruce shot Clint an irritated look.

"Okay, okay," Clint groaned, running his fingers though his hair. "I know this is not healthy, I know that if we're called out right now I am not fit. I understand this, I am not doing this on purpose." Bruce opened his mouth and Clint turned on him with a scowl.

"I am not taking drugs," he added firmly. "They only make it worse."

"This is making it worse," Bruce waved his hands at the video feed. "This is what you've been doing all night, isn't it?"

"This is not making it worse," Clint snapped, redirecting. "This is just how I deal with it." Bruce drew in a deep breath, glancing at one of the video feeds as he decided to let the second accusation go.

"Clint, I think you need to try to explain what's going on here," he said instead.

"You're not that kind of doctor," Clint reminded tiredly, heaving out a sigh as he slumped deeper into the sofa.

"No," Bruce agreed. "And I'm terrible at it. But we did lie to Fury and tell him I was your therapist."

"I'm pretty sure he didn't believe it," Clint replied.

"This does not look healthy," Bruce stated. Clint didn't answer. They sat in silence a long moment, neither moving. Finally Bruce let his head fall back on the couch, rubbing his eyes.

"JARVIS, kill the video feeds, please,"

"Do _not_ kill the feeds!" Clint protested. He swore under his breath, vaulting to his feet as the holovids flickered out of existence.

"Clint, where are you going?" Bruce asked in exasperation.

"To my room, mom," he snapped. "I have my own TV, remember?" Bruce clambered off the sofa, hurrying to cut off his retreat.

"Look, you're tired and frustrated," Bruce offered placatingly, "I understand."

"You don't understand half of what you think you do," Clint countered with a frown.

"I do understand," Bruce insisted. "I've had nightmares so bad I wake up in mid-transformation. That's why there's no one else on my floor. When I was out there in the real world I was terrified to sleep sometimes. I know what it's like."

"You don't know!" Clint shouted. He took a step back, blinking in surprise at himself as if he couldn't believe his own outburst. Bruce looked equally taken aback, his expression stunned. Clint looked down at his hands to find them shaking and he quickly folded his arms over his chest.

"You don't know," He repeated more softly. "You can't because even if you can't remember, you're still you. When it happens to you, you're still in there trying to do the right thing. And maybe you get confused sometimes but you're still trying."

"Clint," Bruce's expression collapsed into a pained look.

"I look at these videos," Clint admitted, his voice trembling. "over and over again trying to find some sign of myself in there, something to say that's me trying to fight him, trying to stop him. And I can't see it! It doesn't matter how much I look, all I see is me letting him take over."

"Some things you can't control," Bruce insisted gently. "You think I don't know about that?"

"Actually that's exactly what I think," Clint choked out. "Because I've seen. It wasn't Thor or Iron Man that caught me when I jumped off the roof, it was you."

"The other guy," Bruce began.

"No, it was _you_," Clint insisted vehemently. "_You_ caught me, you protected my head when we hit the wall. You took the brunt of the impact so I wouldn't get hurt. You were about to chew me out for bing an ass when I blacked out. I know what your lecture face looks like!"

"Clint, you were really drunk that night," Bruce reminded gently.

"Do not play that card with me," Clint protested, his expression turning angry. "Because I go out into the field with you. Do you know who sticks on you like glue most of the time? It's not Cap or Tony trying to make sure you don't destroy anything, it's Nat. Do you know why? Because she feels safe with you. Because she's never fought in combat before the Avengers and even though she wouldn't admit it, she's scared because it's not her training. So she sticks to you because she knows you'll have her back." Bruce rubbed his eyes with an ill expression.

"The one time," Clint continued, his anger building. "The one time you couldn't control it, when Ross and Sterns had you, you asked me to shoot you rather than risk hurting someone. You _begged_ me."

"Sometimes we see what we want," Bruce began hesitantly but Clint cut him off.

"I was there," He insisted. "And you don't remember. Because you never remember. And you haven't watched the tapes, because you don't. Because you don't want to see what I have to see when I watch mine!" His hand waved at the TV, still playing on a muted loop, his own blue tinged eyes staring back at them.

"That is a mindless monster," Clint said softly. "And it's me. My face, my hands. And you don't know what that's like because you have _never_ been that! You want to know what this is? What I dream about? I dream about being that. And I sit up all night looking for some proof that I'm still in there so I can sleep, so I can close my eyes and know I won't wake up and be _that_ again. There are _hours_ of you trying to do what's right. I want ten seconds." The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once and he slumped down on the arm of the sofa with a wince. He wrapped his arms around himself, breathing heavily in the cold silence that filled the room.

"You're right," Bruce said finally.

"What?" Clint asked in confusion.

"I don't remember what happens when," Bruce shrugged. "I don't remember and I don't watch the tapes because I don't want to see what I've done. I'm afraid." Clint stared back at him in surprise as Bruce closed the distance between them, to gently grip Clint's shoulder.

"I guess that makes you a braver man than me," Bruce added. Clint's face flushed ever so slightly. "What you have to understand, Clint, is that it's possible to fight as hard as you can, as hard as anyone could, and still not be able to see it. Sometimes the biggest battles and the greatest victories go completely unwitnessed." Clint looked up at him with a spent, exhausted expression and Bruce gave his arm a squeeze.

"Come on, lie down," Bruce ordered, tugging him coaxingly to his feet and steering him around the couch. "Jarvis, turn off the TV, lights to ten percent."

"Bruce, I'm sorry," Clint mumbled finally.

"Go to sleep, Barton," Bruce insisted, forcing him to stretch out on the sofa and tucking one of the throw pillows under his head.

"I can't," Clint replied miserably. "I can't deal with that dream right now."

"I'm going to stay with you and if you start to have a nightmare I'll wake you up," Bruce promised. "JARVIS, monitor him, alert me if his resting heart rate increases by more than ten percent."

"Yes Doctor," the AI answered as the lights lowered.

"Just relax," Bruce said softly, settling into the corner of the long sofa nearest to Clint's head, his fingers raking through the tangle of the archer's hair.

"You're not a monster," Clint murmured, his body going lax as sleep claimed him. Bruce gave him a soft smile, retrieving his tablet from the coffee table and settling back in the corner of the sofa.

"Neither are you," he whispered.


	8. The dew that flies

**8. The dew that flies**

"Doctor?"

Bruce let out a soft groan, swallowing around the cottony feeling in his mouth. He stretched, pinching the bridge of his nose, dislodging his skewed glasses.

"Doctor Banner?" Bruce blinked up at the figure hovering over him and a small smile curled his lips.

"Morning Thor," he mumbled, sitting up slowly.

"Forgive me for disturbing you, my friend," He offered contritely. "But my dear Jane insisted that you would be most aggrieved to miss the results of your latest experiment." Bruce blinked at him with a dazed expression.

"Damn," he murmured softly. "Is it eight already?"

"It is just after seven thirty," Thor replied, his voice much softer than was usual, he glanced to the sofa with a concerned look. "Is Hawkeye unwell?" Bruce looked down at the man still asleep beside him on the sofa.

"He's been having trouble sleeping," Bruce explained, his brow furrowing in consideration. "I was sitting up with him." Clint was curled up, one knee almost to his chest and his arms tangled around the throw pillow his face was pressed into. He looked much younger than Bruce could ever remember seeing him.

He should stay. It was the only thing that Bruce could think really. That he should stay with Clint. Jane could record the data without him, his presence or otherwise wouldn't affect the results. He should stay.

"I am pleased to see that sword brothers on Midgard still keep vigil over one another," Thor said with satisfaction, a kind smile on his face. Bruce glanced up at him curiously.

"Is that a… thing on Asgard?" he questioned.

"I have passed many nights in the great hall of the Allfather," Thor stated as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "The warriors of Asgard often take their rest in each other's company so that even their dreams may be defended from darkness."

"I guess it's kind of fallen out of fashion here," Bruce admitted. "It's a shame really, most of us would probably sleep better if we knew there was someone to watch our backs."

"It is a shame," Thor murmured with sad agreement. "It is well you stayed with Hawkeye, he has been much troubled these past few days."

"You picked up on that," Bruce observed with a sigh. "I honestly didn't notice. I found him here trying to force himself not to sleep. I told him I'd wake him if he dreamed."

"Do you wish for me to watch over him while you attend to your work, Doctor?" Thor offered.

"I… my work isn't going anywhere," Bruce admitted a little reluctantly.

"Nor am I," Thor observed. Bruce seemed to consider it a moment before giving him a hesitant smile, nodding as he clambered to his feet.

"What does he dream?" Thor asked as Bruce headed toward the elevator. He turned back to find the Asgardian gently tucking a blanket around Clint's shoulders.

"Loki," Bruce answered, his brow knitting in sympathy as Thor's face fell. The blond only nodded, settling on the floor, his shoulder against the sofa so that he could watch Clint's face.

Bruce turned down the hall. He had calculations to run.

* * *

"Hawkeye."

Clint bolted upright on the couch, his eyes wide. A hand came to rest on his arm and he jumped.

"Forgive me my friend," Thor apologized, withdrawing his hand with a chagrinned look. "I did not mean to startle. Doctor Banner asked me to wake you if your dreams threatened to disturb your sleep." Clint stared at him a long moment before drawing in a shaking breath.

"It's okay," he said finally, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm okay, you… The dream had barely started." He let out a sound that might have been amusement if he weren't breathless.

"You have this dream often?" Thor asked, his hand returning to Clint's arm. The archer hesitated a moment as if he'd meant to blow off the question and then changed his mind.

"Yeah," he said reluctantly, nodding.

"I am so sorry, my brother," Thor declared gently.

"Thor, it's not your fault," Clint protested.

"Nor is it yours," Thor stated. "and yet I see it weighs heavily on you even as my own part weighs on me. There are so many things I might have done differently, paths I would have taken if only I had known where they would lead."

"Too bad it doesn't work that way," Clint sighed. Thor nodded in agreement. Clint stared down at his hands, they were no longer shaking and he smiled in spite of himself.

"The things I dream," Clint admitted finally. "I didn't know there was that much darkness inside my head."

"The magic Loki employed is some of the most powerful I have ever encountered," Thor admitted. "It had the power to warp even my own mind and I was barely in contact with it. I can not imagine the horrors it might inflict on someone long exposed to it."

"It affected you?" Clint asked in wonder. Thor only nodded, the pair of them falling into silence.

"How do you… fight off magic like that?" Clint questioned finally.

"You do not," Thor shook his head. "It is truly malevolent in nature and has been against all of our laws for centuries before my own lifetime. There is no way to counteract it, and eventually it will consume the mind and destroy the body if it is not lifted."

"You've seen this kind of thing before," Clint stated, his eyes sad.

"I have seen warriors of Asgard crumple under such assaults," Thor admitted with a pained expression. "I have seen them powerless to resist as their very souls are torn from them. It is a sight I hope to never witness again." Clint's brow furrowed and Thor gave him a gentle smile, squeezing his arm.

"You should try to sleep," Thor coaxed. "It is barely nine in the morning and you have had little rest."

"I feel pretty good actually," Clint admitted, stretching his shoulders. His stomach rumbled and his face broke into a proper smile. "And hungry, apparently."

"Come, the Captain left waffles in the kitchen for you," Thor declared, hauling him to his feet and steering him toward the stairs.

"Thor?" Clint looked up at the other man. "thanks."

"Always, my friend," Thor answered, draping an arm around Clint's shoulders.

* * *

Bruce rolled his shoulders tiredly, staring at the k-cup machine as hot tea ran in rose colored rivulets into his mug. It wasn't his preferred method of making tea, but he'd emptied out the box in his lab today and the one in his suite the night before. He needed to stop forgetting to tell JARVIS about his shopping. The machine gave out a hiss and he scooped up the mug, pressing stiff fingers to its sides.

It had been a productive day. Phase one of "Project Soul Forge" as Jane and Tony had dubbed it, had performed adequately. The explosion had been small and no one had been injured which was far better than expected. If the design modifications worked as planned they'd be one up on combating future alien infections, and maybe a few really crazy domestic ones.

In the long term, the quantum field generator would hopefully mean more effective treatment for cancer and neuromuscular disease. With any luck it would be fully functional before Clint's current prosthetic would need to be replaced in a few years. It would feel good to be able to offer him a permanent cure.

Bruce paused at the top of the first flight of stairs. Tony and Betty had left the lab hours ago. Jane had collapsed on the couch in her lab twenty minutes prior, her body finally giving out under the punishing hours. Most of the others were probably asleep at this time of night as well. He hadn't really seen most of them today. Still.

"JARVIS, did Clint turn in yet?" Bruce asked, his voice seeming to cary in the silence.

"He is in the living room, doctor," the AI replied.

"Right where I left him," Bruce muttered, his expression turning sour. His mind made up, he turned, heading down the short hall. As he approached the bar his frown deepened. The room was very nearly dark, and almost completely silent. He could here a soft rustling, sounds of breathing, but there was no familiar flicker of a television of sounds of voices.

He rounded the corner, pausing in surprise and he slowly circled the long sofa so that he had a better view, a smile tugging at his lips.

Thor was wedged against one arm of the sofa, Clint's head pillowed on his chest. Clint's long legs were draped over Steve, who was splayed in the middle of the couch, his feet on the coffee table, his hand resting on Tony's head where the billionaire was sprawled along the other end of the sofa, his feet propped up on the opposite arm. On the second sofa Natasha was curled up under the tatty afghan that always seemed to appear as if by magic. She looked up from the book she was reading with a sly smile, pressing a finger to her lips. Bruce fought down a chuckle.

Natasha's expression softened and she glanced at the empty end of her sofa before offering him an expectant look. Bruce's eye swept over the scene once more and a gentle smile curled his own lips.

For a moment he wondered how it had happened, if it had been by design or default but it really didn't matter. The Avengers were puppy-piled in the living room, mostly fast asleep and would likely stay there until morning.

Natasha shook her head as if in amusement before returning her attention to her novel. Bruce allowed himself a small smile before settling against the opposite arm, tucking his tablet against his side and leaning back, just enjoying the peacefulness.

His cup was nearly empty when Natasha stretched. Her motions were fluid as she dogeared the page of the ratty paperback and shoved it in between the cushions before rolling over, her auburn head pressed into the corner as she neatly tucked her feet beneath his calves. Bruce smiled. reaching down to straighten the quilt as he set his cup aside. It was less than a minute later and she was asleep.

For a long time he simply watched his team, his family for all intents and purposes, and if his eyes watered a little, well, he was probably tired. It had been a long day. Thor stirred, his arm slipping off the back of the sofa to settle around Clint's chest. A few minutes later, Tony shifted, digging his head into Steve's thigh.

Bruce retrieved his tablet, fishing his headphones from his pocket as he turned it on.

"JARVIS, could you do me a favor?" he whispered into the stillness.

"Of course, Doctor," the AI's muted voice murmured back over his headphones.

"I need you to pull up the surveillance footage of Ross's attack on our gym," he stated, biting his lip. His heart rate jumped a little and he drew in a calming breath, willing himself to relax.

"The secure footage, Doctor?" JARVIS asked skeptically. There was a pause that would have been nervous in a human. "Are you quite sure?"

Bruce looked up, his eyes landing on Clint. The archer had twisted around in his sleep until he was very nearly hugging Thor, his, for once, peaceful face scrunched against the broad chest.

"It's now or never," Bruce declared softly to himself. "I'm sure, JARVIS, queue it up."


End file.
